


A Christmas Carol

by TARDISApparates221



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), In the Loop (2009), In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Episode: 2013 Xmas The Time of the Doctor, Fun, Gen, Headcanon, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Major Character Injury, Malcolm and the Doctor face off, Male-Female Friendship, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Politics, Post Regeneration, Post-Goolding Inquiry, Power Play, Pre-Regeneration, Regeneration, Warning: Twissy Trash, Who Frowned me this face, doctor who season 8, rated for Malcolm's language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-22 19:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11387100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TARDISApparates221/pseuds/TARDISApparates221
Summary: One weird Shitmas was all it took to forge an implicit alliance made in the depths of hell itself.For Malcolm Tucker, life as he knew it was about to grind to a perfect halt and all seems lost. But maybe all his sick and ailing luck needed, was the right kind of Doctor.And, maybe, Malcolm Tucker will find himself surrounded by wasps, aliens and raving-mental psychopaths in fancy dress. And be fucking happy about it.





	1. Christmas As Usual.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellymelly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellymelly/gifts), [Nehszriah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Thick of UNIT](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932334) by [Nehszriah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah). 



> *Leaves this here and runs*
> 
> I hope you enjoy the first few chapters of this stress-fuelled writing extravaganza that I started during the weird AEST liveblog. 
> 
> Thank you Nehszriah for the wonderfulness that was the Thick of UNIT! 
> 
> AND THANKS TO THAT WONDERFUL BEING WHO IS ELLYMELLY FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY ANNOYING SELF <3

_All was well at 10 Downing Street that evening. It’s large, spacious corridors that were home to the enigmatic, hardworking, and path breaking politicians of this glorious nation during the day was blissfully quiet, preparing itself to yield another day of cautious and mindful policy making the next day. He could almost hear the animated chatter of honest men returning home after a good day’s work, waft through the corridors like scented Arabian perfumes, enriching the walls with…_

“What a load of Charlotte - fucking - Bronte level bullshit”

Malcolm Tucker reclined back in his chair, rubbing his fatigued eyes in earnest. “Seriously,” he thought, “What the fuck are you, some omnipresent twat with three fucking pen names? What a way to go, Malc, really fucking posh.”

He thought about calling out to Sam just to see some human he wasn’t ready to hammer onto an ornate, medieval stake just yet, when he suddenly realised that he had practically shouted her out to leave early that day. As the last voices in the building filtered out, only the throbbing, reassuring hum of the vacuums filled the silence in his office.

Malcolm frowned as he picked up a satsuma on his table. “Why did I send her away again?” his mind mused. He stretched lazily from his chair and opened the curtains wide to see snow slowly trailing down to the wet, mud slicked ground below. Somewhere, he could hear people shouting “ _Merry Christmas_ ” and“ _Happy New Year!”_

 _Ah_.

“Then why, pray tell, the fuck am I here?”

Malcolm laughed viciously. Had there ever been a holiday, birthday or god-knows-what-day that he wasn’t haunting the halls of 10 Downing Street? Any semblance of a family life was extinguished when he broke it off with his ex - ah now wasn't that festive?

Stupid Malcolm.

_Stupid Malcolm._

It could have been the fucking apocalypse and he, Malcolm F. Tucker, would be found clutching a Blackberry in one hand and a fucking twattinator in the other, beating the cockroaches or whatever other little shites had managed to survive, trying to keep a semblance of control on whatever the government was blaming the apocalypse on.

Mutated butterflies with death rays?

Pepper pot shakers in the sky?

A literal hurricane of piss?

Malcolm snapped out of his reverie and returned to the piles of newspapers and pamphlets littering his desk. Craving some skinny latte and biscuits, he rifled through his sheets looking for something to dig his teeth into. Christmas had been a relatively relaxed affair at Downing Street, the result of which was a phone that was not blowing up like a fucking atomic bomb on steroids and he could rifle through articles and memos without having to worry about which insufferable cunt had fucked up the Universe. Till, of course, he had to. Which was usually every 20 minutes.

Malcolm was just about to sort out some mess created by “likely to drop a fucking nuke” DoSac, when a pamphlet that had been abandoned on his desk caught his eye. “Bollocks,” he sighed. Sam had said something, vaguely, about it being circulated due to “critical importance”, but if Malcolm had dismissed it for later by just glancing at it, it was probably for the best. But curiosity got the better of him and he picked it up and let his eyes scan the front.

“United Nations Intelligence Task Force, also known as U.N.I.T.” He frowned. The name did seem familiar - some secret band of nerds conducting weird as fuck experiments and operations under government cover. They were pretty much independent and only needed the occasional funds. NOMFUP, he thought, and perused further.

 _“Requests all members of parliament, personnel and staff, specifically at 10 Downing Street to be vigilant and aware of any suspicious activity from a colleague - there is an imminent danger of an alien-“_ Malcolm’s eyebrows knit closer together as he read the entire document, after which he proceeded to throw the pamphlet into the bin with a practise flick of the wrist. A snarl escaped his lips.

“For fuck’s sake, what is this, ‘District _cunt_ ’?” With a scoff, he returned to the never ending pile of papers crying for his attention. His phone’s shrill tones cut through the oppressive silence. Malcolm picked up the phone. “If it isn’t DoSac’s leading whore, Ollie Reeder. What do ya want now ya wanker.”

As he launched into his usual tirade, Malcolm did not notice an ominous buzzing noise that filled up the silent corridors on that cold, Christmas night.

Malcolm did not notice the materialisation of a 1960’s policebox, some two corridors down his door, with all it’s groaning and wheezing.

And despite all the forethought that Malcolm Tucker had, he did to notice that his life was about to change. In the most District Cunt sort of way.

 

***

“I know I was supposed to go to Clara, but I simply couldn’t resist!” The Doctor muttered to his TARDIS. He adjusted his bowtie, and petulantly glared at the shimmering column. “Half the Universe is out to get me, (surprise, surprise!), so the least I could do before I offer my head to them is have a little fun, eh? Just you and me and a weird signal coming from the heart of the British government,” he smiled. 

“Come now, just stay put while I see test drive this lovely little life form scanner I added in, just in case.”

The TARDIS whined in disapproval, and yet the lights in the console room dimmed. They had landed. 

The Doctor patted the console approvingly and turned an accusing finger to Handles. “Now Handles, you’re very, very clever for repairing the configuration of the scanner. But if I get killed, it’s on you! It says here that the life forms are harmless human, but when I do this” he keyed in the correct code, resulting in a filter that ignored human life forms. The result- a pulsating red that was tracing the corridors of the building he was in. “It does this. Which is obviously wrong because this is a human settlement!”

“Incorrect. Two distinct life forms have been detected. One is human. The other is unidentified.”

The Doctor ran his hand through his hair, annoyed. “See that’s exactly the problem with all these fancy gizmos and gadgets! No imagination and common sense! This is a human infested area! Why on Earth would there be aliens about? It make you feel like a complete idiot, when it was probably just some. Stupid. Glitch.” he smacked the screen, hoping to make the second red dot disappear. But it didn’t.

The Doctor sighed. “Risking my life for a test-drive. Story of my life.” He walked out of the TARDIS and found himself standing on the lush red carpet of a rather ominously long corridor. The Doctor wrung his hands and gave a quick smile to the TARDIS. “Now behave, both of you.”

The Doctor heard the soft whines of vacuum cleaners and soon enough a maintenance officer was behind him. “Excuse me sir, what exactly are you doing here.”

The Doctor whipped around, grabbing his psychic paper, “Ah great question there! I’m Doctor John Smith, call me the Doctor, and I’m here for a spot of - ” he paused and adjusted his bowtie to create an impression of his ‘expertise’ - “investigating. Lot’s of bugs in London these days. Can’t be too careful.” He added an ominous stress into his last sentence, drawing closer to the man inspecting the psychic paper. He regarded him with a raised eyebrow and jabbed a finger at the TARDIS. “What’s this then?”

“My supply box”

“I see.” Not entirely convinced, the man stalked away, and the Doctor breathed a sigh of relief. When the man was out of a earshot, he took out his sonic screwdriver and slowly sent pulses of sound to see what returned.  

_No life forms here. Maybe it was -_

_Check the next corridor then._

The Doctor sighed. This was going to be a long one.

 


	2. The Doctor's Tuckering

Lord Alexander Keith had been waiting in his office for the right moment. Or more precisely, the right evening. An evening where everyone would leave sufficiently early, so that he could cover his actions by returning home equally quickly. So as not to raise suspicions of course! He was a politician in a coveted position and party after all! It would be a shame to throw it all away for something that was the result of nothing more than a genetic defect.

But really, would a simply genetic defect be enough to cover up what he _truly_ was? What he was truly capable of?

He shook his head. Whatever _he_ was, he could not help. But it he could help himself by controlling the change - he knew that stress set it off. Mostly physical stress - he had managed to reign in the mental pressures of his job by doing yoga and taking all those anti-stress medications. Hell, he had even murdered the _actual_ Lord Alexander Keith to have the stress-free life that kept him in his human form, and it was working wonders. 10 years without any incident… What tenacity, what ingenuity of his! 

That was, until the Wolf got him in his fangs the other day. 

The first ‘Tuckering’ he ever received was right in the middle of the DoSac building, with the whole building as witness. He still remembered that day vividly. Lord Keith had acquired a new mansion in the countryside - lovely thing with all the modern amenities and enjoyments - in addition to his London flat. While he intended to use the house for Christmas parties, he did not realise that this was in direct contradiction to a bill the department had helped pass about housing that prevented citizens from owning an empty second property.

It was an honest mistake really. He didn’t particularly care about his public image - what worth were those tiny insufferable human gits in any case? Malcolm should just have gone and spent his energy shouting at someone else. 

But _no sir._ Malcolm F. Tucker was in the foulest mood he had been all day, and he was about to put a show for all the world to watch.

Keith could still hear his words ringing around in his head, “ _There are hordes, of fucking press zombies coming from the Other Side, armed with Satan’s poisonous, bloodstained cock, coming to bollock the living shit out of ya, and the best you can do here is tell me that you don’t care?_

“ _Malcolm, with all due respect isn't handling the press your job?”_

The look that Malcolm had given him made him shudder till that day. His eyes, that seemed to change colours at will, had taken a greyish blue tinge to them, giving him the fleeting impression of a storm that can raze cities to the ground.

“ _Did I fucking hear that right, son? Ya mincing, fucking, Oxbridge CUNT?! Speak to me like that ever again-”_

Lord Keith hadn’t stayed to hear the rest - he ran to the safety of his office to try and calm himself down with a hurried apology and how he would do anything to stop this from escalating. But Malcolm didn’t stop.

“ _IF I EVER HEAR THAT OXBRIDGE PRIVILEGED SHITE EVER AGAIN, I WILL FLAY YER WORTHLESS SKIN OFF YA BACK WITH A MEDIEVAL FUCKING KNIFE AND I WILL HANG YOUR STEAMING ENTRAILS OVER THE DOORKNOB OF FUCKING 10 DOWNING FOR ALL THE HOMELESS IN LONDON TO COME WARM THEIR HANDS ON, RIGHT?”_

It had taken all of his power not to turn into his _other_ self and end Malcolm Tucker then and there. He transformed that night, and oh how painful it was. He had to take the day off and work on his almost dislocated joints the morning after his kill. 

That morning he vowed to himself, he would not rest till he had Malcolm Tucker’s dead corpse swinging over the entrance to 10 Downing. 

As the clock struck 3, Lord Alexander Keith felt a purplish glow emitting from his skin and smiled. “Time to get to work.”

***

Malcolm put the phone down on the table with a bang as he extracted to sheets of paper from the humongous Leaning Tower of Shit-sa that was on his desk, as he rifled to the page he was looking for, “Ah look at that.” 

He smiled at the picture of an opposition minister’s child with a clandestine skin colour bandage on his head, led away gingerly by a rather pink faced minster with clenched fists. Horrid as it was, this was his “get out and twat” free card if some opposition dog cunt managed to sniff at the bones he had so vehemently tried to bury for his horse-faced shites of ministers.

Stretching he cracked a few bones in his back, when he heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from outside his door.

Malcolm froze. Almost all the civil servants were gone, and most of the maintenance staff was probably also on their way out. _What the fuck was going on then?_

It was too early for this James Bond kind of shit anyway - Malcolm was tired and his brain was not helping by supplying him with horrid images of terrorist attacks and green fucking blobs of fucking _goo-_

 _“_ Oh this is just _mental.”_

Malcolm stalked out of his office, clutching his phone and saw a petite maintenance staff smacking a rather lanky looking guy.

“Hey, hey, hey what’s going on?”

“He’s a creep! A complete creep!” The woman was on the verge of tears. Malcolm gently prised her away from the cowering man, who slowly raised himself and rubbed his bruised back, looking rather terrified of the woman.

“What happened? Now, calm down there, that’s good.” He gently coaxed the sweep from the lady’s hand as she resolutely crossed her hands over her chest, glaring at the bewildered man. 

“This _man!_ He - he - was walking about and I asked him what he was doing and he, and he… did something _to me”_

Malcolm looked at the guy in complete disdain. He had a bowtie and was wearing a dark tweed jacket - he looked like those pervy fucks of human skin that pass of as professors at those B-grade universities. “What did you do to her?”

“In my defence it really was an overreaction.” the man said raising his hands in the air. “I was simply scanning for life forms when this woman popped in front of me. I was just sonic-ing her, look!”

He was holding up a large pen sort of thing, with a light at the end, and making a weird sound. Malcolm furrowed his eyes brows in the most threatening fashion possible. He might be a colossal cunt to almost everyone in the world, but he would definitely not let some bastard come in and have his way with innocent, hardworking people.

“What is that, your wife’s vibrator? I’m not awake enough to fucking perform a verbal vasectomy on you, ya hippie poof, but if you ever make any unwanted advances on any-“

“OI I did nothing I swear!” the man’s floppy hair was practically raised in alarm now. “How are you doing that with your eyebrows anyway? That’s fascinating!” The man’s eyes grew into fucking orbs as his eyes raked Malcolm’s. 

Malcolm stared at the man in disgust. “What the fuck is this then? A euphemism for “l want to be up your arse like some fucking alien type enema? 

The man tilted his head to the side, ‘I don’t get it? An enema can’t be of an ‘alien type’!

Malcolm opened and closed his mouth, glaring at this massive shite before him. He had dealt with bone heads in the past, but this one fucking took the fucking cake with his almost childish obstinance. The women was shaking her head and asking for a chair, muttering incoherences about the disgusting nature of men, when the intruder raised a placating hand, “Alright, I am sorry, this is all just a very big misunderstanding. I was here to simply test-drive this neat little scanner my ship provided, you know, take it out for a good old spin. Reliability can be such a problem with all these gizmos and gadgets you know!” he rubbed his hands excitedly, like a child at Christmas.

“Mind you though,” he turned to look at Malcolm, suddenly serious, “I’ve met many humans before, but I’ve never heard on swear so much. It isn’t a great sign you know.”

Before the man knew it, he was being backed against the wall by Malcolm. “Oh does my swearing bother you?”

 

***

 

 _“This is really not going well.”_ The Doctor’s brain iterated.

“You think I don’t know?” His brain chirped.

All he had come into the building for was a little test drive. 10 minutes later, he had found himself being cornered by the most vicious looking humanoid he had ever seen.

And this included the snarling Cat People. 

“Oh does my swearing bother you? You insufferable FUCK.” The man spat in his face. “What the fuck is your name anyway?”

“The Doctor.”

“What sort of sad horse, NO, _giraffe_ faced SHITE has a name like that - don’t interrupt me, son.” The Doctor had started to say something when the man growled, jabbing a long bony finger into his face, “Don’t ever fucking think of interrupting me or I’ll rip your head of with my own bare hands and parade it around London for all ya pervy mates to see!”

“Well please do try not to bite my face off, seeing as I want to die having a complete face; really, it might mar the time remnant.” 

A curious buzzing filled the Doctor’s ears. _Really? Really??_ The Doctor literally wanted the wall to devour him. He had stood down armies with the mere mention of his name and scared of the most devious and vilest of his enemies with his gaze alone, and yet here he was, the Oncoming Storm, being pinned to the wall and fearing for the sanctity of his face from an old human.

Somehow the prospect of having his face bitten off sent him into survival mode. Either that, or how painfully the man’s Scottish accent reminded him of Amy. He straightened himself up and levelling his chest to the man’s, and put on the fiercest expression he could muster.

 “I am telling you, all I was looking for here was sentient life forms other than a humans. I am sorry that I scared you,” he said softly to the woman, who nodded stiffly, and levelled another sharp gaze at the man, “and trust me, I’ve been saving your race from the scum of the Universe for over a millennium now, so your tiny, medieval, humany wumany threats mean nothing to me. I’ve seen and faced far worse.”

At that the man backed off, and eyebrow raised. He let out a laugh, “Sentient lifeforms other than humans?” Son, are we even speaking the same fucking language now? Or did ya leave your translator with your Martian buddies?”

The Doctor looked offended, “I am NOT from Mars. And yes, we are broadly speaking English now, aren't we? Well, anyway, stupid questions, stupid questions, where was I…” The Doctor began to walk towards the end of the corridor. Something had popped into his mind, like an annoying insect in his peripheral vision. His right brain stem was tingling, his inner subconscious setting off the cloister bells. A warning. _About what? Something stirring in my memory it seems…_

“Who the fuck are you anyway?” Malcolm caught up with him, roughly turning him around to face. 

The Doctor fidgeted in his hands, “Ow that hurts! And I could ask you the same question. And I will because I told you who I am. I am the Doctor.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean? What, is that like some fancy fucking make believe gaming name fad kids are getting off on these days? What sort of doctor are ya anyway?”

“A good one. Who the hell are you?”

“Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications.”

 The Doctor whistled in approval, “Well, explains the swearing. Is that a new way humans are communicating these days?”

 Malcolm looked at the Doctor in complete shock, his mouth half hanging open mid scowl and his arms crossed. _Who the fucking hell was this cunt?_

“So what the fu-“

The Doctor’s screwdriver pinged really hard and jerked in his hand, making him yelp in shock. The screwdriver remained really still in his hand, and the Doctor looked at it, aghast at this new revelation.

His mind whirred to catch up with his new piece of information.

_So. Good news everyone! The scanner works. So does my brain, apparently._

_Bad news. Something is coming to kill us._

“What now?” he muttered.

Malcolm and the lady started at the Doctor’s device. “Seriously mate who the fuc-“

“Mr. Tucker I am sure you have a suitcase, no, two suitcases full of questions for me but I’m going to have to ask you and this lady to-“

A huge crashing noise accompanied by more screaming broke through the silence of the floor. The Doctor, finally in his element, sprung into action, whipping the door of Malcolm’s door open and hurling the two surprised humans inside. He slammed the door and soniced it shut.

He could hear the incoherent shouts of his acquaintance, but as the Doctor had realised - he worked best without the verbal threats of angry humans.

That’s when he heard it. The buzzing noise that the Doctor and Malcolm, in their quest to understand each other, had completely drowned out. A buzzing noise. He screwed his eyes shut to concentrate on the frequency of the buzzing - he might just be able to figure out the wing number and species type from the buzzing alone if he could just-

“OI YA FUCKING CUNT OPEN MY DOOR!”

The Doctor snarled and turned around to face the oak wood door. However did he manage to shout through that thick a door? _Impressive_ , a part of his mind said. _Fool,_ the other shouted.

“No, because you ask stupid questions and cuss a lot and I don’t - WHAT IS IT?” The Doctor wheeled around to see his sonic pinging out of control. The buzzing noise was almost unbearable and the Doctor just needed some open space and light to clear his cluttered, annoyed mind, and it was so dark here, wait… why was it so dark all of a sudden?

The Doctor raised his head, rather slowly, and found himself face to face with a wasp of almost the same size as he was. It glaring down at him through it’s compound eyes, and it’s sting, the size of a fencing sword was pointed directly at his hearts. 

The Doctor gulped. “Well, hello you beautiful thing,” he whispered. “I’ll just-“

With a flourish he unlocked Malcolm Tucker’s door and hurled himself inside, slamming it shut behind him. And for good measure, deadlocking it.

“What the fuck was that buzzing? Did a fucking swarm of bees just ascend from Satan’s right ball sack?!” a harangued Malcolm cried.

The Doctor averted his gaze from Malcolm, wringing his hands. “A Vespiform. A really, _really_ giant Vespiform. And I don’t think he’s here to play cards.”


	3. Rise of the Invertebrates

Malcolm looked at the Doctor, who was slowly backing away from the banging door. He didn't have time for this fucking bullshit. He checked his watch. It was 3:30 am. 

Tucker had been awake for longer than this on regular office nights, but after a week of all nighters, he was really thin on patience and stamina. Especially without his caffeine loaded, “contains the blood of the gods and the sperm of the fucking Devil” coffee. 

“Mr. Tucker what is happening?” the lady whimpered.

“Right, you, fucking Men in Tweed, get the fuck out of my office. I don’t even care that you literally just broke into the fucking British government, just fuck off and do whatever it is you fuckers do at Cunt-mas, yeah?”

“But seriously it’s a Vespi-“

A sickening sound of splintering wood rent the air, shocking all the three occupants of the office. Malcolm, the lady and the Doctor looked on, as a sharp sting stabbed through what was the handle to the door.

Malcolm gulped audibly. Had he been fucking spiked with acid? Or, considering the circumstances some really fucking exotic shit that scientists were yet to stick their noses into? He watched, in an almost dream like haze as the door swung open and a real, fucking yellow and black wasp entered the room and suspended itself in the middle of his room, it’s huge, fugly eyes trained at him.

Malcolm was as manly as they came, but somehow the critters always got to him. Especially spiders. He fucking _loathed_ anything with more than four appendages. He had learnt to deal with them, living alone, but the inner recoil mechanism stayed - yet somehow the overblown size of the wasp was a blessing because it made the wasp comically stupid in appearance.

He dimly registered the other wretches in the room.

_“Where is security? SECURITY? Call the police! What are the other’s doing?!”_

_“It’s probably cut off communications, wait don’t you have a cell phone?”  
_

_“No I left it in my other coat!”_

_“Malcolm? MALCOLM?_

Malcolm came back into the universe he thought he was in thirty minutes ago.

“You better have a good fucking explanation for this,” he addressed no one in particular. 

His mind was addled with sleep and all he needed to do was just grab a nice comfortable spot on the sofa and just process all this information… maybe the wasp would fuck off out of the window? He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.

“No, no Malcolm, _Malcolm,_ you have to keep it together, come on!” The Doctor cried, placing an arm on his shoulder.

The Vespiform began to transform. Malcolm looked on in horrified fascination - unable to move and unable to speak. It was odd though, watching it’s wings retract into his back and his appendages fusing together. That wasn't even the weirdest part - the head started turning pink, and the eyes began to take shape…

 Fucking hell.

_Fucking hell._

Standing before them, was the transformed Lord Alexander Keith. And he had a nasty grin plastered on his face. “Doing well tonight on this glorious Christmas Eve, eh? Surprised none of you lot went home,” he cast an almost congenial glance at the Doctor and the lady. “Well, I don’t really have any business with you lot, so off you go!” 

The maintenance woman shot off into the corridor, screaming something of the likes of “Murder!” and “Wasp!”

Lord Keith turned to Malcolm, ignoring the Doctor who slowly began to make his way to the door, his eyes trained on Keith.

“And of course you would be here, wouldn't you, you sad, lonely bastard. Well I am afraid Malcolm, this Christmas is most definitely going to be your last, so, I’ll tell your little pet Jamie you said bye.”

Malcolm could make out the Doctor running out of the door after sparing Malcolm one last glance, presumably to get the fuck out of there while he still could, and he wouldn't blame him. Malcolm was surprised at the ease with which he had accepted it - then again Malcolm was a man who worked on rumours and intangible whispers. 

But if this was how Malcolm F Tucker was going down, he wasn't going to go down without a fucking fight.

“Really? Lord Richie Rich is fucking waspman? I’m surprised you didn't get one of your poofed up robot butlers to come here and do me in for ya… I’m fucking honoured really,” Malcolm managed a sarcastic smile while keeping Keith’s eyes fixed on his stormy ones. “Fucking _chuffed_ that his royal twattiness, Lord Oxbridge of DoSaCunts thinks I’m worth having him don his, fucking Pulitzer winning bee costume, for fuck’s sake, Jesus fucking Christ have ya looked into a mirror lately?”

“I could tell you the same-" 

“LISTEN HERE YA TWAT!” Malcolm launched himself at Keith with all the venom in his fangs and shit in his throat. “Go ahead then, fucking _do me in,_ and let’s see how you survive the fucking fall out of that, eh? I welcome death cause we’re bezzy fucking mates and we shag once in a while on top of a burning barbecue of my entrails, because I’m _this fucking_ _close_ to contracting bullshitimia from the corridors of this fucking carnival of horrors and fucking spontaneously combusting, right? And you, _you_ are one of the shite-headed fruit bats that carry this disease on their backs for years on end, till it festers inside you like some shit volcano and spills all over me, and all I’m given is a fucking shovel and aspirin to keep this government and it’s fruit bats running. Do you know what that's like?” Malcolm spat into Keith’s face, which had turned white and was slowly shuddering.

“Oh Malcolm you really shouldn't have done that,” The Doctor said miserably. Malcolm jumped at the sound of the Doctor, and (although he would rather shove a lamp up his arse than say it) so fucking glad that he came back. He looked over Keith's shoulder to see him holding some sort of head cap over Keith’s head. 

“You really shouldn't have.”

“I thought you'd  fucked off.” 

The buzzing issuing from Alexander Keith was getting ominously loud and his mouth had contracted to a hiss as he turned to face a white faced Doctor. His face was tinged with purple as he slowly allowed his alien genetics to deal with the adrenaline coursing through his body. The Doctor looked like a kid who had just been told that Santa wasn't real.

Malcolm ran blindly towards the door at an alarming speed, and grabbing the Doctor’s arm for good measure. 

The image of Alexander Keith’s expanding face had been burned into his mind’s eye like a fucking brand at some Nazi camp.

“He looked like he was about to fucking explode.” Malcolm whispered. 

“If we don’t hurry, that will be us”

 

***

The Doctor had snuck behind the Vespiform human hybrid. A wasp like Vespiform… a waspiform… _a Waspy._ He was ready to sweet talk his way to buy himself and Malcolm more time to think. But watching Malcolm straighten his back and glare at the man, made the Doctor think that he could hold the fort for a while. 

The Doctor ripped towards the TARDIS, nearly tripping and breaking his teeth on a hat stand, and after fiddling with a few knobs and switches grabbed the Chameleon arch that had descended towards him. He yanked it off it’s snug wiring and raced towards Malcolm’s office and wildly ran the screwdriver over it, hoping to change the configuration in such a way that it would freeze Lord Keith’s genetic lock and keep him stable for a while longer under stress. He thanked himself for his amazing spatial memory and found himself standing behind Waspy in minutes.

“Well done, you handsome old Doctor, you” he grinned inwardly. Waspy was still in his human form and Malcolm was, well, less so. 

As Malcolm ranted against him, employing his favourite metaphors, a part of the Doctor’s mind couldn't help but silently beam at him. The human race - indeed the most tenacious of them all. Malcolm was clearly suffering from sleep deprivation and possibly even anxiety (his thumbnails had practically been eaten off), and yet he managed to produce a perversely horrendous and yet riveting monologue to stun Waspy. 

_He stunned Waspy._

_Oh bugger._

 The Doctor felt his hearts fall away from his chest and the other side of his brain round house kicked the romantic, idiotic one. Waspy was here because of Malcolm having done something to him - possibly triggered his genetic lock to unlock and he had left him here with his violator.

 _Classic move, Doctor._ He could hear River say.

_Shut up River. Working._

Okay, plan B. Malcolm and the Doctor hurtled out of the room as Waspy started to change into his alien form. Poor old Waspy - it must be hurting him quite a bit.

“That process really hurts him you know? Genetic rewriting is no walk in the park!” he groaned.

“Oh don't fucking tell me you’re like him.”

“No I’m not! But I was planning on keeping him human for a while, at least so he could withstand your… your…”

“Bollocking?” 

“Yes, that. Now we need to find a way to contain him.”

Waspy swept out of the room and made the beeline straight for the two running men. The Doctor fell and dragged Malcolm down with him. With his brain on overdrive, the Doctor immediately pulled himself up to a squat and raised his arms in the air,

“WASPY! WASPY! Can I call you that?”

The Vespiform stopped mid attack and stared at him. 

“Waspy, yes, thank you, great! My name is the Doctor and I’m an alien too.” He smiled and adjusted his bowtie, “Please don’t attack us. I might know why you want to kill this man,” he gestured at an incredulous Malcolm, “but he didn’t know this would set you off! He’s only human! You know how they're like!”

Waspy buzzed angrily and hauled himself at the two men, who dived in either direction to avoid his sting, which ripped through the lush carpet. Malcolm bolted upright and snarled, “So you’re telling me this is Lord Keith throwing a fucking _fit_ because he couldn’t deal with my bollocking?”

The Doctor looked at Malcolm and frowned, “Why do you have to bollock them anyway? Talking nicely gets a lot achieved believe me - ”

Waspy swooped again, but this time, Tucker was ready. He had upended the hat stand and swung it over his head like a broad sword. It caught Waspy’s sting and for a brief moment, the Doctor mused at what an interesting sparring match this scene would have made in other circumstances.

Malcolm’s swing was not powerful, but it was enough to upset the balance of the Vespiform, which keeled mid flight and crashed into an ornate paining in the wall with an angry buzz. Malcolm and the Doctor sprinted towards the stairs.

The Doctor skid to a halt, “No wait my ship is this way!” he yanked Malcolm by the shirt, “We’re safer in there!”

“I’m not getting into your dumb arsed ship, I’m fucking getting a bazooka!"

The Doctor might have seemed like a lanky professor to Malcolm, but in reality he had a higher muscle mass in his body than the average human. He slammed into Malcolm and yanked the hat stand spear from him.

“TARDIS, now!” he yelled. “And no guns!”

Turning to go back, they were confronted by Waspy yet again. “Waspy… Keith!” The Doctor cried, “Listen to me, please! I’ve encountered your kind before… you’re a hybrid aren’t you! A human with a Vespiform genetic blueprint, oh you beautiful thing! Speak to me, please!”

Waspy stopped buzzing angrily and regarded the Doctor. He clicked his pincers angrily as if to say, “Yeah?”

“Yes I understand you, and yes _I have met your kind!_ A poor man with the same human -Vespirform conversion as you… well I’m here to tell you that I can help!” The Doctor slowly advanced towards the Wasp, ignoring Malcolm’s silent whisper, “ _The_ _fuck are you doing you mad cunt. Get back!”_

The Doctor held both his hands up and gently tried to lay them on the Vespiforms sting, “Please, try to understand. This man,” he gestured to Malcolm, “has never met an alien before. Or your kind. Killing him is not exactly going to make a wonderful first impression is it? Show the intelligence and benevolence your species is known for, eh? Come on Waspy! _I will help you!_ ”

“Malcolm won’t hurt you… he won’t tell you a single word. Will you Malcolm?”

Malcolm looked at the Doctor like he had completely lost it. _Well he wouldn’t be wrong,_ the Doctor thought. But he willed his mind through his eyes, _trust me. Trust me, Malcolm, please._

His eyes beheld the Verpiform and they seemed like they were going to pop out and the Doctor feared the worst. But as if through some miracle, Malcolm nodded. The moment hung out in suspense and for a glimmering second the Doctor thought all wasweld when Waspy slowly began to descend from the air, “That’s it, there you go you wonderful-“

 Shattering glass and sounds of gun fire rang in the Doctor’s ears as a lean frame tackled him to the ground. 

“ _Fucking foetus boy! What the fuck were you thinking?”_ Malcolm screamed into his ear.

A blur of yellow and black crashed before the Doctor's eyes in a horrible, resounding thud, and the Doctor’s brain slowly caught up to his senses.They had killed him. They had killed Waspy. 

And he could feel his insides burning with an anger tempered in the heat of the Time War. 

 ***

 


	4. A Question of Understanding

Malcolm felt like a B-roll actor in some retarded World War 1 movie- he was pressed against the lanky frame of the neurotic who had tried to reason with a fucking wasp, and to add the cherry on this perfectly shite cake, as ‘Waspy' made his graceless descent onto the carpet, he smacked Malcolm’s head with it’s huge wing.

Cursing silently, Malcolm got up after the barrage of bullets over his head were finished, and rubbed his bruised head, dimly aware of the Doctor rising slowly beside him. Malcolm hazarded a glance at his face and nearly backed away in fear. The Doctor’s face had transformed from bumbling, idiotic buffoon to something far more sinister - dare he say - ancient. It was like those faces Malcolm saw in those sad, insipid reports about child soldiers - the Doctor’s eyes were like dark slits in his face and they were glimmering through the smoke and dust around him. 

“Who ordered the attack.” The Doctor asked one of the darkly clad men who were approaching them. His voice was barely louder a whisper.

“UNIT, sir. Director Stewart ordered the attack. There was a kill on sight issued on the Vespiform two days ago, sir.” 

Malcolm didn't hear the Doctor shout. He continued on in that silkily dangerous voice of his, “Why?”

Malcolm recognised that trick. He often supplemented it with a smirk or a ‘look’. It got people shitting in their pants faster than a bout of diarrhoea.

“Multiple charges of murder and hijacking a human identity, sir.”

“And yet Kate Stewart does not bother to find out what motivated this man into action? What motivated him to take a life in order to control a genetic lock that it probably never even knew existed? Unable to reach out to anyone in this world, who, if they ever found his identity, would kill him for it? In other words, a World. That. Hates. It!” The Doctor banged the wall, punctuating his words with the blows. All the soldiers jumped back from the Doctor like he was emanating 2000 volts from his body. Maybe he was.

“Well, because if she’s interested,” The Doctor continued, “I think you will find that THIS man” he pointed an accusing finger at Malcolm, “Is to blame for some of the important, literally life changing events in Waspy’s life. Lord Keith would not have died if it had not been for this pathetic, controlling, foul-mouthed man, and maybe, _just maybe,_  I might have been able to reason with him and stop him from - ”

“How dare you?” Malcolm too, spoke softly. “How _dare_ you put the blame at my door?”

The Doctor turned around and advanced Malcolm. All the soldiers looked pretty terrified for Malcolm, but he stood his ground. He had stared down worse shits in his life anyway, and he was nothing if not The Great White Motherfucker of 10 Downing. 

“Because as a Time Lord of Gallifrey, I-”

“AL-FUCKING-RIGHT you sanctimonious piece of shite.” Malcolm felt his insides explode with the rage of a whole fucking storm. It had been brewing inside him ever since Lord Keith called him those things, and he was really not in the mindset for another wannabe upper class _fucking_ cunt to walk on him. And especially not one that looked like he wanked off to National Geography in his spare time.

“Al-fucking-right you weapons grade piece of Downton Abbey shite, let me tell you something about this government and it’s people yeah? Everyday you open the newspaper, and see ministers, tripping over their midget sized balls, pretending they give a fuck about ‘the People” or pretending that they didn't sock their kids in the fucking face or trying to resurrect themselves from some stupid little scandal involving masks and too much fucking lube… Do you _really_ think, my _Lord,_ that it was really them trying to make amends? Because if you do I have news for you son -”

“Stop calling me son, I am over a 1000 years old - ” 

Malcolm pushed the Doctor into a wall and jabbed him in the chest with his finger, “You could be Jesus fucking Christ come back to raise our fucking souls from whatever hell you call this and still I wouldn’t care, because I am the fucking self-raising Lazarus. And also because when I look at you, all I see is a self righteous bastard, who looks like he just crawled out of his mother. You, presuming to tell me how to do my job and trying teach me about the moral high ground… well let me tell you something, _son.”_

 _“_ You just heard from them that an entire fucking human being was murdered and his identity stolen so that this little cunt could have some nice upper class fun and escape his ‘stressful life’ and yet you’re saying we should feel sorry for him? Or that the real Alexander Keith deserved to die because some alien bastard couldn't do some fucking yoga or be brave enough to fucking to find a way out? Oh, that’s fucking fantastic isn't it? Who gave you the right, you pasty fuck? “Ooh but I’m a Lord, and you don’t know how stressful it is changing your genetic who-ha!” WELL I DON’T FUCKING CARE! We as a species have to face fucking hordes of the fucking horsemen of the Apocalypse every day of our lives, and I don’t see some magic alien fairy go around giving us our ‘rewards’?”

“Take me for example,” Malcolm backed away, gesturing vehemently at his face, “You were looking for an alien right? You’ve got one right here, because I don’t fucking _feel_ human at all. There’s nothing in here - probably just one of those tiny aliens from Men in Black working inside a machine clone of what used to be Malcolm Tucker. Because every day of my existence on this fucking planet in this fucking job has ended with me being _this close_ to having an aneurysm of the brain and ending it for good. And I still come back here and defend this party from the bogeyman for 22 hours. Where’s my pat on the back? Where’s my expensive getaway to some naked beach? Where’s my mansion in the countryside, hmm? Where’s my reward? WHERE’S MY REWARD?”

Malcolm breathed in deeply and let go, as he often did after a long rant as this, but he didn't feel normal. The feeling of release in his muscles did not resemble that of pure and sheer control after a good bollocking - this felt different. His brain panicked and said, “ _Well I do feel very much in control, thank you.”_

Malcolm racked his brain for an answer.

_Then why was it so different?_

_Because it seems that this is the first time you ever told someone how you truly feel about your life. Relaxing feeling if I’m honest._ A voice said in his head.

Wait. It seemed to familiar.

_Fuck. He could almost hear him adjust his fucking bowtie. In his head._

Malcolm raised his eyes in horror to see the Doctor grinning from ear to fucking gigantic ear. The Doctor tapped his head amusingly, “Telepathic. Easy Time Lord trick, sorry. It overwhelms most people but I guessed it might be helpful.”

Malcolm saw an odd expression on the Doctor’s face - it seemed like some sort of cross between confusion and fascination. The Doctor shook his head and grinned at the UNIT henchmen that were fanning throughout the floor. “Well I’ll be off then. Seems like you lot can will get along just fine.” The Doctor sauntered towards his TARDIS. 

Malcolm chased the Doctor, “Oi, where the fuck are you off to? This is a proper shit ton of a security incident and if we can’t cover it properly we’ll be left looking like a bunch of incompetent wankers - ”

“Oh UNIT will take care of it, they always do. Brilliant work. I’m a fan,” the Doctor laughed and clapped Malcolm on the back, “Haven’t you noticed?” Malcolm looked at the Doctor, confused and skeptical. The Doctor barked a laugh and finger gunned at Malcolm, “The fact that you didn’t is good enough. Besides,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes gleaming “Big old Universe to see out there, what’s the point of languishing in once place, day in, day out? You said so yourself.”  

Malcolm’s eyebrows threatened to fall off his face. The Doctor’s face closely resembled the pictures of those shite heroes in those horrible rom coms Sam used to teasingly send him to piss him off. It was so comically Disney-esque, Malcolm thought he would puke his satsuma on his shoes. The twinkling hope in his eyes, the soft features and warm, reassuring smile just before he popped the question to his lady…

_Oh fucking fuck me._

“What's this then?” Malcolm eyed the TARDIS suspiciously. “I’m getting a slightly pedo vibe from this whole thing, ya know?”

The Doctor looked offended, “It’s not…” he whispered, “ _pedo._ Eugh, you really have to work on your expressions, Malkie. Too vivid. Anyhow, great meeting you, gotta be off I’m afraid, hate goodbyes blah, blah,” The Doctor yanked the TARDIS door and made his way inside, before being pulled out by Malcolm.

“I don’t think even your miracle worker UNIT will be able to clean up this mess alone, it’s literally happened inside 10 Downing for fuck’s sake - we’ll be swamped by fear-mongering neurotics about Al-Qaeda and what not - ”

The Doctor impatiently turned around and smiled silkily, “Well you _are_ the Director of the Department of Communications aren’t you? The magical guardian of the seat of power in this land? UNIT will be thrilled to have your help.” 

Malcolm let go of the man’s coat, and had a desperate urge to punch him in the face. However, something in that brazen declaration of him sodding off for good, made him laugh. 

“Fuck off into your fucking magic wardrobe, you fucking Aslan. And no the kids won’t miss you so don’t come back.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Tucker. And for future reference, I am a Time Lord of Gallifrey. That’s my species name.”

“Oh so fucking modest. So what do your people do then, put on jaunty little bonnets while fucking the Big Ben? Fuck off.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr Tucker.”

“Fuckity bye.”

The Doctor stared at Malcolm, smiling expectantly. 

“Oh don’t make me say it, seriously, just you, go you, fuck off to Pluto or some black hole shit,”

The Doctor’s smile broadened, “I will after you say it.”

Malcom sighed, "Merry Christmas, ya poof."

The Doctor saluted Malcolm and disappeared into his box in a purple whirlwind of tweed. Malcolm stared at the box, grinning like an idiot. What the fuck was he expecting was going to happen? Some magic tunnel? The sounds of jerking off?

A wheezing and groaning sound began to erupt from the box, as the entire box began to shimmer and disappear into the air. 

A UNIT officer nudged Malcolm, who snapped back into consciousness, realising it had been 10 minutes since the box had disappeared. He turned to face the man, his mouth open in shock.

“Sir, Director Stewart would like a word with you in your office.”

“Someone better have a good explanation for this.” he murmured as he jammed his hands into his pockets and made his way to his office.

It was still dark outside, but the lights from his office reflected off the bright white snow on his windowsill. The world outside looked like a perfect wonderland, and Christmas was finally here in full swing.

_Fuck off Charlotte Bronte._

He checked his watch. 4 am. "No sleep for the wicked eh? "

A blonde woman in a suit was sitting on a chair before his table, and was holding two cups of coffee. One look at him and she handed him one, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Tucker. I was going to ask you how it was, but considering the circumstances, I think we can safely say it was, ah, _eventful._ ”

Malcolm smiled, his polite facade kicking in almost instinctively as he sat down on his chair, “Oh, you have no idea.” 

“Actually,” Kate removed a huge dossier of records from her bag, “We do. And we were also prepared to deal with the media side of this, but I must say the Doctor was right. We are glad to have help from the Director of Communications.”

Malcolm’s brain wanted him to scream, “It’s literally sod-off’ o’clock in the morning.” Instead he managed “You know that man?”

“He is an advisor to us, in a minor but critical capacity.” 

Malcolm sipped his coffee, and felt adrenaline surge through his veins like fucking Ichor. His favourite skinny latte. He looked up and considered the woman who was sitting before him. Director Kate smiled.

“Better?”

“Loads. Biscuit?”

 


	5. Two Good Men

The Doctor sauntered around the console, flipping switches at a whim as the TARDIS manoeuvred herself inside the Time Vortex. The Vortex buffeted and swirled around her, as she directed her course to London, 2013.

The Doctor absently played with the knobs controlling the configuration of the vector plane of space time coordinates. Precise setting was of paramount and any skew in the coordinates while the TARDIS was navigating the vortex could mean complete loss of spatio-temporal bearings. Which meant that the TARDIS would loose the trajectory to her destination. Which could mean that he would remain stranded in that one part of the time vortex. And if the Doctor could not calibrate the vectors quickly, the TARDIS would continue to be buffeted by the callous moments in the vortex. Forever. Fancy that! 

 _Dangerous work this, Clara. Gotta be really, really careful._  

Maybe some part of him wanted that to happen - the TARDIS careening out of control inside the time vortex might just dim the constant whispers of time calling out to him, to his fate, to his _death…_

“ALL RIGHT!” he said yanking the knob ferociously, resetting the coordinates. Easy solution to not get lost - stop and ask for directions. Why didn't people do that more often? The Doctor flicked the materialisation lever ferociously and jammed the breaks. The TARDIS remained suspended in the moment… well to be absolutely accurate - every moment. The ones that were and would ever be. 

“Change of plan you all!”  

Handles gave a beep of discomfort and the TARDIS shuddered in annoyance. “Sorry, sorry... volatile, dying old man don't mind me… just give me a teeny weeny…” The Doctor furiously racked his brains for the date he was looking for. He pictured him, Malcolm F Tucker, in the height of his glory, calling minister’s at his office, running them down by day, and terrorising their sleep by night. _Yes, the terror of 10 in his prime indeed. I am looking for something a bit more, ah, less glamorous._

His mind spun down and down and down the time streams, till he could see Malcolm’s once prideful face, defeated and tired - a look the Doctor could truly empathise with. He watched, as if through a keyhole, as Malcolm confided in Terri inside some glassed conference room. 

“ _I was the fucking Pharaoh.”_

  _Bingo._

Typing a few lines into the TARDIS’s immense repository of timelines, he extracted the one he was looking for. A bunch of coordinates popped up, and the Doctor quickly transformed them into the Rassilonian Circular Coordinates, twisting the knobs to the correct vectors. The TARDIS hummed happily, steadying herself.  

Whew. He turned to read the screen.

The Goolding Inquiry. 23rd October, 2012. Case: Malcolm Tucker. Charges: leaking the medical records of a Mr. Tickel. Verdict: Jail Term for Five years.

Perfect. 

Video records? Just the one. A TV report on the arrest of Malcolm Tucker. The Doctor put it on the screen watched. Malcolm was standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, a keen fiery look in his eye, “I would like to say something…” He stretched the moment looking like he was trying to use his last moments to grapple at some hope, some redemption…

The fire extinguished, “Nah, it doesn't matter anyway.”

He walked away, defeated by the very beast he had given birth to. The Doctor considered his next course of action for a moment, fidgeting with the console. 

_Maybe not. I should just go to Clara now._

_I literally almost dropped out of the bloody Universe for this. Too late._

He set the coordinates for the 23rd and pulled the lever, as the TARDIS made an annoyed retching noise, as if to say, “Why do we even care about him?”

The Doctor looked up at the TARDIS and sighed, “Because no on does.” 

***

Sneaking into the conference room was almost criminally easy. Partly because the room was so full of people pushing and jostling about at the entrance. Finding a seat was much harder - everyone had taken the best seats. It was bestial and horrific, the Doctor thought. He could tell, because he could flit into the minds of those in the front and know why they were there.

This was a gladiator fight. And Malcolm was going to lose spectacularly. Everyone knew that, especially those in the front, and they wanted to see Malcolm getting metaphorically mauled in the carotids. 

Humans really were the most despicable race in the Universe, the Doctor muttered. 

  _Then why are you here, eh Doctor? Maybe some part of you never forgave him for Waspy._

  _Or maybe you recognised something when you saw those angry, grey eyes. A bit of you lurked in there._  

That was true, the Doctor mused. He was there because he wanted to see Malcolm Tucker make that last stand against those who he had worked to protect. He wanted to see how he put up a fight to defend his actions, morally dubious as they may be. He wanted to see how strong Malcolm’s convictions would hold against a jail term and a possible end to a career he was clearly quite dedicated to. 

The Doctor was there because he knew that he would soon be facing his own special jury soon. The whole universe would be jabbing a finger to his chest. The whole universe would be waiting to see his career cut at the head. The whole universe would be waiting for him to decide between his death and the Universe’s.

He wanted to know how it would end. How the Doctor should walk to his death. How to make the final bow. With no hope, no witness, no reward.

“Ooh that's good I should write that down somewhere.”

The Doctor stood by at a safe distance and watched Malcolm walk into the room and swear on the ‘holy book’. Funny thing that, the Doctor mused. If half of what humans supposed would happen, the Earth would really need less saving from itself. His job would be much easier.

_His job._

“Goodness me,” the Doctor laughed inwardly. “I really sound so old and bitter don't I? I guess Time Lords do live too long.”

He sat down slowly on the second row, strategically away from any cameras that might be present and fixed his eyes at the back of Malcolm’s head. 

The Inquiry into Malcolm F Tucker began and, in the beginning, the Doctor even regretted thinking about coming. If this was supposed to be a dry run or even an analogy for what’s going to happen to him in the near future, the Doctor would rather run headlong into a very sharp spike. It was embarrassing to say the least. 

“Regardless of whether you came by Mr Tickel’s health records, did you then proceed to leak them to the media?”

“I can’t recall.”

“So, that's not a denial?”

“Should’ve remembered yeah.”

 _Oh no, Malcolm._ The Doctor pressed his face into his hands and grunted. _Idiot._

“This is definitely the final nail in your coffin you know that right?” The Doctor considered jumping from his seat and dashing to the exit. “Come on Malkie, cuss or do something!” 

Watching Malcolm speak without a _fuck_ or a _cunt_ seemed so awkward, even to the Doctor. It was like someone had just stripped him naked.

“Being naked in Paris was fun,” some part of the Doctor’s brain chimed. 

But the Doctor sat firmly in his seat, and watched as Malcolm held his ground before those who looked down at him. Even at the eleventh hour, he had picked himself up for the last punch. 

“Let me tell you this,” Malcolm started, “The whole planet’s leaking… Everyone spilling their guts on the internet…" 

For those two minutes, there was nothing but a deathly silence in the room. No one spoke. not even a whisper passed. Malcolm Tucker had written his death sentence, seated in that chair, saying everything that he had said. Everyone knew that. No one more than the Doctor. And yet watching him defend and explain his actions so candidly once again made the Doctor feel like he understood him at some level. Hell, he had pulled out a few speeches in tight situations too.

“This is the result of a political class that has given up on morality, and pursues popularity at all costs.” 

The Doctor watched the back of his head, willing himself not to go up there and yank Malcolm out of the judging gaze of the panel and take him to the TARDIS. He wanted to clap him on the back and tell him he would be okay. 

But as the Doctor knew, neither he nor Malcolm would be okay. So what to do about it then? 

Well, he could snivel and grovel in front of the Universe hell bent on killing him or he could end it like this. “I will walk out to my death, head held high. Shoulders back.” he murmured straightening himself.  

_I’m finished anyway.You didn't finish me._

A great big finger to the Universe then.

Easy peasy.  

The Doctor sauntered out of the room, hands in his pocket as he contemplated the future of the grey haired man.

 And indeed his own.

***

 _He was standing at the edge of the world. Throwing the last meaningless taunts to those Daleks flitting about him like flies. Even at this distance, even with him as an old man way past his prime, even with the whole of Christmas in ruins, they didn't dare attack him till they were sure that it was really him turning himself in. The Doctor._  

_Ha. Amateurs. The pathetic fools all of them._

“Dear me,” the Doctor thought, “I _am_ old. As old as those Council members on Gallifrey. The GrandParents. Never thought I’d manage that. Little surprises, little surprises.”

The old, senile Doctor looked up at the Dalek ships and raised his arms wide in supplication. _This is the day I die. And I will die with my head held high and my arms wide open, welcoming it._  

He had always thought about dying, about what his dying thoughts would be. He used to tell himself that when he died he would think about all his friends. He would think about Clara and Amy, and Donna and Martha, and Rose and River, and the hundreds before them. But somehow, he couldn’t.

 They made him want to fight. To curse his old ailing bones and whack a Dalek on the head with his stick. _Like Ace did._

 _I have to die,_ he begged. _It’s the only way!_

His brain seemed to understand, and supplanted an image from, oh so long ago. A man with glorious eyebrows and not-so-glorious language. Stormy eyes that changed colour, and that had a fire that was extinguished by the very monsters he kept alive. _Oh how fitting, how fitting,_ his mind thought morbidly. 

He closed his eyes and thought of the last words Malcolm Tucker ever truly spoke to the world, “I’m finished anyway. You didn't finish me.”

Tendrils of energy tickled the Doctor’s nose as he opened his eyes and stared at crack the Time Lord’s had placed behind the Daleks. The energy pulled his senses back into shape, his brain had never felt this fresher in a long time, and the only thing annoying him now were those pesky old joints, damn them. 

Looking down at his hands the Doctor saw Huon energy getting synthesised from his skin, as a high pitched sonic whine filled his ears. Energy bubbled inside him explosively as he felt his timeline stretch and teeter to a breaking point and then settle.He grinned idiotically.

The Doctor had never felt this alive.

 _“After all this time and I finally get a thank you for pulling your arses out of the Time War?_ _Well I guess late is better than never, eh?”_ his psychic link screamed into the crack. 

But aloud he only shouted, “Love from Gallifrey, boys!”

***

“So I just got a new regeneration cycle and what’s the first thing I did in it? _Fetched stupid coffee.”_ The Doctor grumbled internally. On the outside, the Doctor grimace at the bored cashier, who handed him the two coffees, and walked back to his TARDIS. He stopped and looked around.

“Where the hell is she?”

The Doctor wracked his brain for an answer. Clara had mentioned something about “I”ll sit here” but his newly configured brain hadn't had the time to work on short term memory. Was he even supposed to go out and get coffee? Or was Clara actually in trouble? No that was a few hours ago… _was it?_

The Doctor grumbled and did the rational thing. He got inside his TARDIS and took off. 

He was really getting too old for this domestic crap. Too sharp and too clever for it.

Once the TARDIS was securely in the time vortex, the Doctor made a beeline straight for the dressing room and stood in front of the mirrors positioned around him to give him a full view of his new body.

The first time he had taken off without Clara, he'd slept. Human beds were too smelly and uncomfortable. Plus Vastra and psychically knocked him out - that wasn't the same as falling asleep. His brain remained on “crouching tiger, hidden annoyed,” the whole while. So the first thing he did was sleep. On sheets that smelled of home. After oh such a long time.  

He also redecorated. That was fun. He loved unearthing the round things and carefully fixing them on the wall as the TARDIS created spaces for them. Then he had changed his clothes. That was an important decision too - he was pretty much finished with annoying frills and ties - something simple and cut out for business. Something sharp and dangerous. Like a Wolf.

He had no idea why he was going down that route. Serious and to the point seemed to be the modus operandi of this face. And he was fine with it. But he wanted to know why.  

Which is why he was here now. He looked at his face closely - he hadn't had the opportunity to do so kicking about in Victorian England with their grimy water and silver plates. He looked at his face and considered it. It was an old one. All lines and everything. He liked it though. They were all in the right places. Made him look and feel authoritative. The Doctor smiled approvingly. 

And really imposing eyebrows, now THAT was an improvement. And they really complemented his eyes. They were a stormy grey. Or were they blue? In the light they seemed to change colours - a dirty blue to a tinged green to grey again.  

_Strange._

The right question is what he was looking for - the right question to get the right answer. Prodding the universe to get a reaction. That’s logical. That’s sensible. 

“Question. How do Time Lords manipulate the outward appearance of a regeneration.” 

“Answer. Because they have control over the genetic coding of the cells, through the Huon energy and the sonic disruption. Targeted control on specific parts of the genetic code allows manipulation of core features of the appearance.” 

“Question. Is this a process many Time lords engage in?” 

“Answer. No. It's annoying and exhausting.”

The Doctor ambled to the console room - the warm red of the central console caressed his face as he ran his hands across the multitude of buttons that spanned the metallic console. 

_So neat. So professional looking. Why did I design her to look like this?_

“Hypothesis. Time Lords would only control their appearance because of some important event that preceded regeneration. Leads me to think - what was the most important thing or thought I had before I got this face.”

“I faced certain death. That has profound implications on any thing that lives, breathes and thinks. The brain- ” the Doctor flourished his hands as he raced for a chalk and board, “has a unique trick to ensure it’s future survival - it closely catalogues the memory of any incident closely connected with a trauma.” He scribbled the words ‘memory’ and ‘trauma’ on the board, “it’s an important memory... your brain knows what to do when its faced with a similar situation again.”

"We’ve all faced it - you’re being shot at by a Dalek or about to be hit by a car.” The Doctor paused dramatically. “Everything seems to stop…Time passes slowly, as if by magic, and when you can finally string two words together you remember the most absurd of details. Like the colour of your clothes, the exact position of the car, the feeling of your heart pumping in your chest. In short," The Doctor scribbled a word on the board, "A superpower."

"So why can't I remember what I was thinking when I nearly died?" The Doctor frowned and walked to the board, looking at the two words. Memory and trauma. Maybe he was asking the wrong question. 

“I should've written it down.” he murmured and walked dejectedly back to the console. 

 

_***_

The Doctor watched Clara walk out of the TARDIS, presumably to go bathe or whatever it was that human’s did in their spare time. _Funny little apes. Pudding brains._

The Doctor placed his hand on the console and remarked,“Pudding brains with that annoying ability to really toy with your brain. Like honestly, whatever did she mean when she said, “Well I don’t know if you’re a good man but you try?” Can’t their language be more specific and without emotions layering another layer of connotative meaning? Layers. Layers. LAYERS!” He cried to the empty thrum of the TARDIS engines. 

 _Atleast he tried_. That’s what his ‘carer’ thought. And for her that was good enough.

“Then it’s good enough for me,” the Doctor’s said quietly.

“After all, why _would_ she say if she’s my carer if she didn't want to be around me anymore? If Clara Oswald is not comfortable with something she says it. Or certainly articulates it.” He rubbed the cheek still stinging from her slap. 

A darker side of the Doctor’s mind whispered _, “Or maybe, she doesn't think of you as a friend anymore. She’s too polite to admit it. Too British. She’s travelling with you because the old you begged her to.You know how she looks at your face, with distrust and wistfulness. She wants bowtie back, and you know it. Especially with that incident with the coffee. How can she trust you to have her back? Why should she?"_  

The Doctor firmly shut the melodramatic bit of him out, but the damage had been done. Is that it then? Was travelling with him her duty? Her duty as his carer? A duty of care?

_A duty of care._

_With no hope, no witness, no reward._

It was like being truncheoned in the face with a Slitheen. The Doctor smacked his head as the image of a lonely grey haired man sat in the confines of a cell - surrounded by enemies on either side. 

 _Am I a good man?_ His eyes seemed to say.

The Doctor laughed the loudest he had in centuries. His voice rang through the TARDIS as he hurriedly typed out coordinates to direct the TARDIS to his destination. 23rd April, 2014 was the closest he could manage without crossing timelines with his past selves. Malcolm was in some unnamed prison. It didn't matter, because he knew exactly where he was spatially, and the Doctor had no intention of leaving him in there.  

“Yes, _yes you grey haired beauty you are!_ You saved my life. You gave me an idea of how to face a situation I never had faced in _any_ of my lives. Now allow me the honour to save yours!” The Doctor’s face beamed with pride as he switched the dematerialisation lever with a smooth thump. 

The roundels of the central column seemed to spin with renewed vigour, reflecting the dance of the Doctor’s hearts. 

_He remembered Malcolm Tucker, and he would make sure the whole bloody Universe knew him too. Because God knew that he might not be the best man in the world. But neither was the Doctor._

_But at least they tried._

***

 


	6. Really Fucking Complicated Stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied rape and attempted rape.
> 
> Also, please note that I am trash for Peter Capaldi - hair, voice and all. If you hadn't noticed by now that is ;)

_“Had it been 6 months already? What a fucking drag.”_

Malcolm nibbled on the hard bread and cold tea that had been shoved through the cat flap in his door. He sat on the cold, hard bed, which was honestly a luxury compared to his sofa in 10 Downing, but somehow the charm seemed to fade away after 6 months in the same room. 

“Fucking hell, this is not your room Malc. This is fucking prison.” his head reminded him. 

Although Malcolm was kept in the more comfortable parts of the prison, considering that he hadn't actually gone and straight up stuck a sharp knife into some poor sod’s eye, there was no denying that the bare walls and rickety bed and sink made Malcolm feel like he was being kept in the right bollock of Satan himself. Or possibly a polar bear because his skinny arse was giving his innards no comfort against the cold.

Sometimes he’d have the luxury of speaking to family and friends. Sam would pop down to say hi during the holidays, and Jamie would send cards. He would even get a visit from his brother and his son, David. 

He used to have a TV in his room, so he knew what was going on in the world outside - not that it helped him maintain his sanity at all. Watching the news in politics these days was equivalent to having a really sharp skewer being projected from his anus to his brain and then being twisted by that incompetent twat Ollie. 

_Ollie fucking Reeder._

“One day,” he muttered under his breath, “I will find that worm and I will rip his skin out like a banana and shove it down own throat.”

His fellow inmate stirred. Malcolm immediately mellowed down and curled up into a little ball and collapsed on his bed. He didn't want to wake that poor bastard up… God know’s he’d been through hell these past few weeks. 

Apparently his  _roomie_ was in there for a serious felony and identity theft charge (the memories of that Wasp infested Christmas had shaken up Malcolm so badly he almost pissed himself when the guy told him about it. He made his fellow inmate promise that he wasn't prone to “random fits of buzzing.”) He was a lanky, nerdy sort of lad by name ‘Andy’, and although Malcolm severely detested any human being who could not at string two sentences together without fidgeting with his glasses, he took to building a workable sort of relationship with his inmate. Because whether he liked it or not, they would be sharing this fucking hell hole for at least five years and Malcolm was in no mood to get beaten up. 

And it really was going quite, relatively, well. Malcolm’s behaviour in prison was pretty much stellar till about a month ago. He had even managed to secure a “Well-behaved” reputation amongst those who didn't really know or care who he was. 

“And that’s when the fucking hail storm of shit descended on my already miserable life.” Malcolm sighed into his pillow.

 It started off pretty much routine. Wake up and brekkie, and a short socialisation session with the other scum of Planet Earth. Malcolm fucking despised social events in any form and shape - he had frankly failed to put on any sociable or warm facade in the corridors of Downing Street and that wasn't going to change in prison either. The result was, that when Malcolm Tucker walked the corridors of the prison, he looked like a rumbling storm of shit and broken glass that would gouge your eyes out if you attempted to initiate contact. 

Andy and Malcom used to sit with their small band on the furthest benches in the common area, finishing their tea in silence. The ‘Muscunteers’, Malcolm called them. This day was no different, the only minor, cosmetic difference being the advancing pack of the personification of the mud on Malcolm’s boots. Big, burly shits with so many tattoos that it would make any B-grade prison movie director have an orgasm.  

They slid onto the same bench as them. 

_“Oh here we fucking go.”_

Malcolm’s brain had this horrible tendency of going into straight up ‘offence mode’ like some Cold War submarine - he used to jump to the worst possible outcome and work his away up from there. However, his positively dark attitude did not help with his current situation, as much as it saved his arse in Westminster. 

Malcolm saw the statistics on rape and sexual assault in prison started becoming a reality and frankly it disconcerted him to no end, when the only closely associated memory with that fact was the colossal data fuck up at DoSAC. Not the most comforting memory to have when you’re being cornered by 7 x 50 sized cupboards for humans.

He had heard rumours and whispers from Andy and his little cohort too. And the ominous group that was making their way towards them seemed to be the worst offenders. Malcolm steeled himself, and unconsciously felt his inner ‘silver toungue’ manifest itself.

“Hey Andy.”

“Hey Frank.”

“You  _know_  this cockstain?” Malcolm asked, his eyebrows raising in glorious scorn. Andy murmured something incoherently and the others at the table looked positively terrified. Malcolm rolled his eyes in annoyance. Did  _he_ always have to be the one to put on the bollocking face?

“Well he has my cockstain if you get what I mean,” the man practically purred, shocking Malcolm into silence.

 _Of course he had._ He made eyes contact with Andy who seemed to practically wish a black hole would erupt inside his heart and consume him. 

“So what. Come here to gloat that you  _finally_ got laid? Well good for you, ya pathetic wanker, now leave Andy be.”

 Malcolm continued to maintain eye contact with Andy willing his eyes to speak what his brain was thinking.  _I’ll try and get him away. We’ll talk about it later. You’ve got to be strong._

Malcolm hated it. He hated everyone in this sodding prison. He hated himself for putting himself here, surrounded by the worthless scum of the world. And he hated the fact that he couldn't play the psychological “got your nose” he was so good at in Downing. But he was not going to let some bastard walk over the underdog. It was just how he functioned. Whether it was some Oxbridge twat at Westminster or the lead boy in this little boyband of perverted fucks. 

_He was not going to let them stomp over the underdog._

“So, Malcolm Tucker yeah? Saw you on TV. Heard about you loads from my girlfriend too. Worked at DoSAC. You look like someone dug you outta ditch.”

“Well that is not necessarily the worst thing I’ve heard 10 Downing being compared to.” Malcolm maintained his dignity. It’s what he had left in his own personal hell. 

“So it’s true? You fucking downed the nurse by leaking those records. You sick bastard!” Frank guffawed. His precious fuckbuddies guffawed with him. It made Malcolm sick. It was like a back alley rendition of the ministers of 10 Downing. 

“Look son if I wanted to sit here and listen to you lecturing me about morality - ” he lowered his voice and plastered a smile on his face for the passing guard, “I’ll give you the cue which is me hanging myself by the light in my cell, using the pyjamas that I boned your mother in, right? Fuck off” he spit the last two words with as much venom as he could possibly muster.  

He looked up at Andy. He looked as if he had seen a ghost. 

 _Oh shit._ Malcolm thought. He really did have a way with words. At the worst, possible time. 

Frank gave him the sweetest stare and the bell indicating the end of the social session rang through out the prison. As all the inmates shuffled to the canteen to place their plates, Frank hung incredibly close to Malcolm. Too close for comfort. Malcolm took a deep breath in trying to calm the throbbing in his temples. 

“So Tucker, like to play it rough huh? I heard you got pretty physical with one Minister. Punched him in the nose and shit.”

 _Glenn_. Flashes of memories of Malcolm trying to cover Glenn from the prying eyes of reporters and rushing him to the medical room to get his nose patched up ripped before his eyes. He laughed about that incident a lot with Jamie on the phone. Jamie couldn't believe that Malcolm could actually had the muscle mass to even hurt a fucking fruit fly.

  _Jamie._ The thought of someone he considered so close to an ally in 10,  _hell even a fucking friend,_ almost drove Malcolm to his knees.

 Oh fuck. No time to become all Glenntimental. Not when someone was literally threatening to be up his arse in the next 30 minutes.

 Malcolm didn't grace Frank with any response.

 “And for someone as skinny as fuck like you.” Frank licked his lips, “So what other hidden talents do you have?”

 Frank grabbed his waist and held him close to his large sweaty body. Malcolm stomped Frank's toe, hard, yet nothing. A sharp bark of the guard forced him to relinquish his iron grip on Malcolm. But the message had been delivered and received. If Frank got a hold of Malcolm, neither Mary nor fucking Joseph would be able to extract him from it. 

Malcolm placed his plate on the counter and fucked off from the canteen as fast as his shaking legs could take him. He had to get out of there. Soon. 

_Oh wait._

Malcolm got back into his cell and as soon as the door closed he rammed his back into a wall, sliding down with almost theatrical aplomb. He covered his face in his hands, the images from the morning still fresh in his mind.  _It had just been 6 months in this hell hole. Just 6 fucking months. And he was already this close to being, quite literally, fucked._

The sick feeling at the pit of his stomach exploded into his body like a cancer - Malcolm Tucker had never shed a tear in adulthood, not even on the worst day of his life.

“And I am not going to let some Stupid. Fucking. Mincing. Cunt make me.” He slammed his fist against the wall. 

The pain exploding across his knuckles was reassuringly sweet when he imagined Frank the Fuckers face under it.

Suddenly a guard entered his cell and Malcolm’s eyes snapped up. 

“Cell 121, Tucker?”

“Yes.”

“Take the TV.”

Malcolm scrambled to his feet, “Why? What happened?”

“You have violated a code of conduct by verbally and physically assaulting Frank Gold. There were three witnesses who attested to this. Do you have any objections?” 

Prison had not dulled Malcolm’s brain; he had not lost any of his Machiavellian instincts. His eyes fell to the man's security badge, which , “John Eastwood.”

Frank Gold’s  _golden_ ally. Right at the heart of the prison. 

“ _Fucking fuck me, that’s why Andy looked like he’d shit his pants.”_  

Malcolm had no idea how deep this alliance lay and how far up. HIs brain really knew how to dig out the worst didn't it? He just silently shook his head and allowed his TV to be taken away. That was 12 days worth of news he was missing. Malcolm sighed and lay on his bed. He needed a plan to evade capture and sexual assault at the hands of those colossal tits. The first he had failed once. The second…  _well if there’s a God,_ he mused,  _I really hope I could call in a favour just this once._

***

Malcolm barely got any sleep the next month, and he barely ever showered. Even if he did, it was so fast that the water had barely time to make it to his scalp before he was dressed and out of the cubicles. His cat napping skills, honed in his office sofa were paying off well - the slightest noise of a disturbance would set him off. 

Sleep deprivation and slowly advancing indigestion (thanks in part to how  _disgusting_ he felt) had made Malcolm worse for wear - he was looking so frail and thin that a week after his self imposed Lent began, that he found Andy looming over him, one morning, white as a sheet. “Do you need a Doctor, Mr Tucker?”

“No, fuck me, why?

“You look like you're gonna die.”

And that was true. Malcolm’s face was more lined than ever and he was feeling more miserable than usual. His eyes were also sunken pits and a greyish stubble had formed around his jaw. 

Andy wrinkled his nose, “Tucker, you need a wash. Please." 

“And get taken up the arse? No thanks.”

Andy turned white once again. “They don’t attack in the showers! What’s this some shite Hollywood movie?”

 Malcolm glared at Andy, the younger man’s eyes fell and he began to fidget, “if they wanted to take you, you would've been taken. You’re fine for now.”

“Andy.” Malcolm pushed himself off the bed and shuffled to the younger man, “Andy, son, are you sure you alright? Have they been hurtin' you?”

Andy smiled, “You take care of yourself. Please.”

“I’ll take care of you.”

Andy laughed shakily adjusting his glasses. “Sure thing.” he stopped at the door, and then turned around, smiling a little sadly, “Besides, if you eat you might get some strength to- to -”

 Andy froze on the spot like a hung computer, turned around mechanically and stalked out, milling together with the other inmates. Malcolm often wondered when he joined politics whether or not he had actually helped anyone. And sitting in his cell in this Godforsaken prison, he thought he had finally found the answer. 

Malcolm felt his eyes becoming warm.  _Stop it, STOP IT._

Feeling shittier than usual and in a desperate need of some distraction, Malcolm let the swarm of people buffet him to wherever they had to go.  

Malcolm relented to taking showers and eating meals again, and a month later, he would daresay that he felt much better. His brain could focus on keeping his anus intact, not that he would admit it to Andy. Maybe, that night, he would take a proper sleep and not wake up every time a guard passed by the cell door.

Returning to his cell that evening after a day of rebuilding the old canteen, Malcolm fell onto his bed, not even bothering to lift the covers. He could still smell varnish on his clothes, but he didn't care. Maybe this wasn't so bad an arrangement. 

“Keep a close eye on your back and arse. Work them both off. Come back to the cell and crash for the night.” His mind compiled the list and stored it in his long term; his eyes wandered off to the calendar he had propped up on the wall.

23rd April.

7 months since the day of his arrest.

7 months since all hell broke lose and the very hell hounds Malcolm had fed with his own, ungloved hands had some back to take his cock off.  

“7 is supposed to be some lucky type number, eh? But then again, let’s be honest, I’m just as lucky as the clitoris of a virgin nun who thinks fifty shades of grey is actual porn. Jesus fucking Christ.”

Malcolm dozed off. 

Malcolm had no clue how prophetic his musings on the nature of his luck were, as the door of his cell opened with the tiniest clang.

_***_

 

Nighttime. The Doctor stepped out of the TARDIS and took in his surroundings. He seemed to be within the premises of the prison, as the scanner had warned him. For good measure he scanned for other life forms. Only human. Good. Easy as cake then.

He had payed a little visit to Kate Stewart for tea and informed her about what he was intending on doing. Kate had raised that perfectly sculpted eye brow of hers. 

“You plan on breaking out a criminal who has been charged with 5 years of jail term?”

“Yes.”

“And bring him here to give him a job at our media management?”

“Yes.”

 ‘With only a letter signed by me and -”

 "Queen Elizabeth yes. Have you forgotten that we were married? I still carry her seal, look-” he showed off a ring kept in his inner jacket pocket, “Just for emergencies, and think about it-“ he leaned forward maintaining a level gaze with Kate, “I am technically the best kept secret of the British Empire. If word gets around that good ol’ Queen Bess is well, ah, not the good Queen Bess we all know and love, it might just plunge the culture of this country into chaos, and goodness knows their economy and government don't have time for this. It’s a plot worthy of Malcolm Tucker.” the Doctor smiled conspiratorially..

 

“We could just get him out of prison in a week’s time, properly and-“

 

“Boring. Not my style.” The Doctor grumbled.

 

“Well this isn't our style either Doctor! Please try and understand! The UN doesn't command that much respect as it used to in the past… governments have grown wary of us. As you say, the economy of this country can’t sustain us!” Kate pleaded with the Doctor. “I know what you’re going to say already.” she said raising a hand to silence the Doctor, “My father would have done it- ”

“No I wasn't going to say that,” the Doctor petulantly responded, his eyes rolling magnificently, “I was… I was…” The Doctor seemed to be unable to formulate a sentence. Kate looked at him expectantly, with raised eyebrows.

The Doctor swatted the air irritably, “Ugh you’re wasting my time Kate. Well I thought I should warn you before hand. Besides,” the Doctor ambled towards the TARDIS, “If i get Malcolm for you, you might just be able to get yourself out of whatever mess you find yourself in.”

“It doesn't work like that! He’ll need to be briefed and -”

“I have a duty of care, Kate! I care about that man, god knows no one does, and I don’t care how long it takes. I'm going to get him out of prison.”

Kate stopped and stared at the Doctor, “Does Malcolm know you think of him as a friend?”

The Doctor, in a tantrum, cried, “He will know  _now!_ ”

They both glared at each other. Somewhere in the depth of Kate’s eyes, the Doctor could see Lethbridge Stewart glaring out at him; and as Kate sighed, he could almost see the Brigadier’s resigned huff consider him from his daughter’s eyes.

The Doctor smiled.  _Oh how he knew to play the Stewarts._

Kate sat behind her desk and typed out a letter, stamping it with the UNIT seal. The Doctor frowned as she handed him the envelope, “Leave this with the warden if you care about us at all. Leave it in his cell if you are feeling dramatic.”

“What does it say?”

“Well if I do remember correctly, Mr. Tucker and I buried some bones in his backyard about the Vespiform incident. Let’s just say I can rustle up a good mystery over it.” Kate smiled knowingly and walked back to her bureau. The Doctor grinned, and left immediately for the prison.

He stepped into the pitch dark of the cell. He removed his screwdriver torch and scanned his surroundings. He was aware that there were two beds but only one was occupied. He lightly raised the lighted screwdriver over the inmates face. 

It wasn't Malcolm.

The Doctor went to the other bed and placed his hand on it. It was obvious that the other bed had been slept in. Although the covers hadn't been taken there was definitely the unmistakable signs of disruption on the top covers. And it was warm.

Confused and slightly panicky, the Doctor withdrew from the sleeping man and soniced the cell door open.

Cell 212, the plaque read.

The Doctor held the screwdriver in his hands and emitted sonic pulses from the screwdriver. 

 _Where are you Malcolm? Where are you, you stupid pudding brain?_  

He needed a bloodhound to find Malcolm in this labyrinth. A bloodhound that could smell his scent or hear this footsteps and anticipate where he was and where he was going.

_Where we was and where he was going. Tenses. Time._

The Doctor placed his palm against the Cell Door and concentrated. The white noises of the dark prison dimmed in his ears, and was replaced by the whooshing of a million time streams. He focused, with one face clear in his head. “Malcolm Tucker. I am looking for Malcolm Tucker, exactly 10 minutes ago." 

His consciousness ripped across the untempered Schism that made him one with the temporal dimension. He wasn't in a prison anymore. He was back in the library of his TARDIS, and here time was nothing more than a favourite book he was looking for. He ran it’s carpeted corridors, searching for Malcolm, when he found it. 

The Doctor was standing in the cell again and he looked down at Malcolm, who was lying in his bed. Peacefully asleep. His eyes were worryingly sunken, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Then the door to his cell opened quietly, and a guard walked in, and placed a cloth on Malcolm’s face. Malcolm’s eyes flew open, but it was no use. The chloroform knocked him right out.

The Doctor watched, paralysed with fear, as the man picked up Malcolm like a rag doll and carried him gently outside the cell. The Doctor made to follow, but in his fear he shattered the image and found himself grasping the cell door for support.

There was commotion behind him as a guard ran upto him. The Doctor groaned,“Stupid Doctor. Stupid, idiot Doctor.” He had forgotten to override the safety system. 

So why didn't the alarms go off then? 

“Erm… Mr. Tucker? You're not supposed to be - ” three guards had reached the Doctor, all three of them gawking at ‘Malcolm’s’ get up, confused. One was holding a taser in his hands like a gun, and a bewildered expression was on their faces. 

The Doctor raised an eyebrow, and considered them, a well practised frown appearing on his face. Then he comically glanced above their shoulders and shouted, “Watch out!” 

As soon as they turned around, the Doctor yanked one of the tasers from the officer’s hand and rammed his sonic onto the electrical wiring that fed all the doors circuitry.

All the doors swung open with a bang and luckily for the Doctor, the noise was enough to distract his running footsteps and the guards attempted to pursue. Suddenly, the overloaded circuits short circuited and the prison was plunged into darkness. 

 _Smooth one, Doctor._ He could hear the shouts of the confused guards

“He’s getting away!”

“What the hell was that green thing?”

“What the fuck is- ”

The Doctor didn't stay to hear. He deadlocked the door separating the cells from the rest of the prison and began to pace wildly. He had to think before he wasted his energy running.  _They were taking Malcolm away… where? He had checked, there were no aliens so no Cyberman conversion centre… then what?_

 The Doctor pushed away the implausible. Logic. Questions. Hypothesis. That’s the modus operandi of this face.

“Question one. I am a man with a grudge against someone, evidently. I want to, presumably, hurt them really bad. Where would I take them?"

“Some place quite and secluded. Some place where the evidence of my crimes can be hidden.”

“Question two. I have the authorities on my side, yet I can’t get out of this prison. What’s the best place that I could be in?”

“Answer,” the Doctor stopped his aimless pacing and thought. He had seen a brief glimpse of the schematic of the prison on the TARDIS scanner. He had entered the cells, and he was currently in one of the social areas. That was all there was to this floor. He was pretty certain that the man who was carrying Malcolm went to the left in his vision. So he couldn't have taken the stairs or the lift (his peripheral vision had catalogued that the stair well door was pretty much solidly locked and was only opened by his sonic pulse). That only left this side of the floor for exploration. 

Great.

“Bathroom?” he mused. Blood could be washed away. But what about an entire body? Too messy, definitely not the bathroom.

He looked down at the taser in his hands. “Why did I - oh never mind.” Old stealing habits kicking in during times of stress, probably. The Doctor could hear banging behind him. No doubt, those apes for guards were trying to break the deadlock through sheer force. That needed to be sorted out, and quickly. He could hear their combined crashed against the metal.

 _Not just metal... painted metal. Lower conductivity._ The Doctor looked down at the taser in his hands.  _Sustained electricity._

The Doctor grinned. Oh, how he  _loved_ his subconscious. He set the taser to stun and soniced it to ensure a constant electrical supply from the cartridges. It would buy him 10 minutes, at the most. He checked the range - 35 feet. More than enough. 

He had faced worse odds. 

He ran to the deadlocked door the police officers were struggling against.  He aimed the taser for the metallic doors and shot, dropping the taser the instant the electrodes flew out. He raced away, not staying to admire his handiwork, but from the yelps of pain, and electricity discharging, he had succeeded. 

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Bye."

His mind went back to the problem at hand. 

“Where could Malcolm be?”

“The second social room? Too open, too much space for error and forensics - 

A bloodcurdling scream blanked the Doctor’s thoughts as he directed himself to the voice. As the Doctor ripped the plastic curtains leading to the voice, he fervently hoped he wasn't too late.

 

***

 

Malcolm opened his eyes blinking at the harsh glare that was threatening to melt his eyes into his skull.

“Now wouldn't that be an amazing start to the shittiest food video ever,” Malcolm internally groaned, “Hannibal Lecter would be proud.”

He tried to sit up, but found himself with his hands tied to his back. He gently tried to prise his hands apart, but to no avail. He could feel the vein in temple throbbing as violently as his heart. A dawning realisation hit him. 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck it’s happening, this is happening, fuck fuck fuuuuuck…_

“Okay Malcolm, calm Malcolm, we thought about this. Praise Satan and all his nihilism, we prepared for this.”

“So you're tied up. What’s the last thing you remember?"

“Inspector Plod was trying to fucking gag me. He could've just sat on me mind - ” 

“Focus,” his brain hissed

A feeling of dread crept into his gut, freezing his innards. So this is what they were waiting for? The one time he would let his guard drop so they could assault his pants. Andy was probably in on it-

“ _Focus, you fucking idiotic cunt._ ” Sam’s voice seemed to cut through his head. The one time he had heard her cuss, he was stunned for a moment and then laughing so hard he in the next felt his ribs were going to crack. It was like watching his nephew learn how to speak for the first time.

_Focus._

“They could have done you already. How do you feel?”

He did a mental check of his clothes. He was not wearing any, and felt oddly disgusting. He blinked the fine concrete dust out of his watering eyes. But he oddly didn't feel like anything had… had…  _happened"_  

He gulped and held back tears.  _I will not cry. I will not satisfy that colossal fuck. Despite the fact that I look like a fucking wanker from those SPCA parades for fucking seals or what not._

The self deprecation worked wonders, but not for long.

“Oi the Self raising Lazarus is awake!” one of Frank’s henchmen pulled Malcolm up by his hair. Malcolm yelped in pain - his follicles were on fire. The man got incredibly close to Malcolm’s nose. He could almost smell vodka on his lips.

‘Is it true tho? Are you really self raising?” Disgusting snickers went around like this was some secret teenage pre-group wank session. Which this probably was.

Malcolm’s heart began to falter as he yanked himself away from the offending creature and considered the group before him. There was Frank the Fucker, in all his muscled hideousness, laughing with his little band of bitches. Malcolm’s eyes almost plopped out of their sockets when he saw John Eastwood, smiling pathetically at Malcolm. They had all undone their belt buckles and were looking at him hungrily. Malcolm, a man of many words, was struck dumb. 

_This is it Malc. You are about to become the White bitch of Whitehall in this lonely fucking hell hole._

Frank puckered his lips and advanced towards Malcolm, his hand reaching down into his pants, his meaty fingers ready to force Malcolm into a more comfortable position to receive his cock. When he pushed Malcolm to the ground with iron force, his watch digging into Malcolm's shoulder, he knocked out all the wind in Malcolm's body. 

Malcolm was tempted to laugh sarcastically. 

Gagged by his own fucking body.

As the ratty alcoholic came to thrust that shitty rag into Malcolm’s face, Malcolm knew this was his last shot. He couldn’t hold the tightening in his chest any longer. He inhaled for what is was worth, and fucking screamed. 

He screamed so hard he thought his lungs might explode. He felt a huge hand slamming into his face. He tasted blood. 

“I told you to fucking gag him!”

“Don’t worry there’s no one nosy enough on duty...”

“LET GO OF HIM RIGHT NOW.” 

To Malcolm, that voice sounded like a fucking angel’s. The room he was in was no place for an opera or the Austria Philharmonic Orchestra to play Bach, but the voice seemed to reverberate in the walls of Malcolm’s ears. It was rich and deep and sonorous, and it seemed to come from the very soul of the speaker. 

“Let. Go. Of. Him. Right. Now”

Malcolm’s brain, valiantly trying to catch upto his surrounding’s, was about to heap more praises on this voice, when he realised something was wrong. His confusion was reflected in the face of all those around him, and he looked at Frank to confirm. 

The face that Frank had put on was so fucking ridiculous that Malcolm would have snorted if it had not been for the fact that a) he was scared shitless and b) there was no air in his windpipe. Frank looked like he had seen the ghost of all his ill deserved orgasms coming to haunt him. He looked down to stare at Malcolm, “How the fuck…”

“You  _base, disgusting, bestial creatures._ Millions of years of evolution and communication utterly  _wasted_  on an ape like yourself.  _Was I speaking a bit too advanced for you, hmm?_ Would you like a physical demonstration? _”_  

Frank made a noise in his throat as the others stared, dumbly. 

A pink blur appeared into Malcolm’s field of vision and rammed into Frank’s nose. Frank keeled back clutching his bleeding face, backing away from the apparition, his face looking positively terrified now. A dark set of pants appeared before Malcolm’s eyes.

 Malcolm’s brain replayed the voice in his head. The roll of the r’s and the extended o’s … _Why was it so achingly familiar?_

Oh that’s right.

That was his voice.

_Wait, what?!_

Malcolm thrashed about his bonds trying to free himself only succeeding in keeling over in the dust. The other men were advancing on his saviour. If only he could…

“Don’t even bother trying to get near me. I’m angry enough that I had to almost electrocute a bunch of guards to find this man, so don't tempt me to kill you.” the man said coldly. “And within ten minutes, those ape guards would have figured a way to open the gate, so I recommend you do not try and injure us anymore than is necessary... or you might find yourself facing a lifetime worth of troubles adding to your current predicament. I personally assure you of that.”

Malcolm felt weird that his subconscious suddenly seemed to have a volume. Malcolm rasped, “Oi, who the hell- ”

He felt a warm blanket land on top of him and there was a buzzing noise that undid his hand restraints. “There. Better? Can you stand?" 

Malcolm shuddered as he took support of the wall to get the blood circulation in his legs going. That was his voice he was sure of it. He looked up to see his saviour and nearly fell down in shock again.

He was looking at himself.

He pinched himself and squinted his eyes at the man. 

And he still looked just like Malcolm. 

Malcolm slid down the wall considering the man that was before him. This really couldn't be him. Could it? How could that be possible? 

“I never had a twin, I made fucking sure of that when I went into politics.” he found himself saying out loud. “I only have a brother. Michael.”

The man smiled. “I know. Consider me your alien guardian angel.” His smile became even broader and eyes positively twinkled, as he expectantly spread his arms around, “Remember me?”

A sudden crashing noise made the pair jump, as Frank hurled himself at the intruder. The intruder whipped out a device and aimed it at Frank’s arm. One buzzing noise and the watch exploded in his hand, burning it severely.

_The device._

_He remembered that funny little thing._

_Kate had given him a model to inspect when they were chatting in his office, that Christmas morning…_   _A sonic screwdriver._

Malcolm guffawed,"Oh  _fucking_ hell _."_  There was only one person in the whole fucking universe who owned one, and he sure as  _fuck_ did not look like this man.

Because this man did not look like a hippie. He looked fucking  _classy._ He didn't wear a bowtie or any sort of tie. A dark black jacket inlaid with a red velvet was the only sign of punk rebellion in his get up. The rest? Flawless. Dark jacket with a black waistcoat that perfectly foiled the high collared white shirt that was buttoned up primly. And his  _face._ Malcolm never held any bit of himself in high esteem… still didn’t… but this man.  

This man made Malcolm’s face look  _good._  

Almost divine.

_Yes thank you Charlotte fucking Bronte for your input, now, back into your box and don't come back._

Alarms rang across the floor, in a resounding klaxon. Tucker shook his head and looked at the man, who was scaring the henchmen with his screwdriver, “Fear the magic wand! Yes, scream! Really I can never get tired of this,” he was laughing. Frank was lying on the ground, in a pool of his own piss, and Malcolm dimly registered guards breaking through the scene. 

“Police put down your- ”

“Right you incompetent pudding headed apes.” The man whirled around to face them, his face contorted as what Malcolm recognised as his signature bollocking face. “I think we need to have a little word about favouritism and security around here, and I would really love to hang around and give you the full lecture…” he whipped out a letter and a wallet and proceeded to show them both to the gawping policemen, “but as you can see neither do I have the time  _nor_ the patience to do it, and my friend here,” he indicated towards Malcolm, “has been scarred in ways your sorry little minds cannot comprehend. So I recommend, quite earnestly, that you let me escort this man to my ship and let me restore balance to the Universe.”

“But, your majesty, Lord Doctor,  _sir_ \- ” 

Malcolm’s eyes swivelled to the man. T _he Doctor? So this really_ was _him? How the fucking hell did he manage to do that? Did he even have money to?_  

The Doctor spun around and levelled a dangerous glare at the guard, “Do I look to be in a argumentative mood?”

The guards parted for them like the fucking Sea did for Moses. And the Doctor led Malcom gently away by the arm. 

Malcolm stopped in his tracks and stared at the Doctor. “You’re… you’re him? You’re the bowtie guy? You’re that fucking hippie who nearly got us fucking killed at Christmas? _”_

The Doctor looked at Malcolm confused, “Do you have another alien guardian angel? Yes, I am the Doctor. I am a Time Lord of Gallifrey and I am over 2000 years old. And I still remember my first Tuckering.” He smiled warmly. “Transcribed it and framed it on a wall in my library, come I’ll show you…”

The rational part of Malcolm protested that it couldn't be true, that it would need some intense surgery and even then he should be looking like some shitty low budget Bond villain. Not some dapper twat who looked like he’d just had a drink with   Bond himself. 

The other, more impulsive human inside Malcolm, just let every muscle in his being relax. He was alive and whole and the Doctor had found him. That mad fucking bastard. He sunk into the Doctor’s side, gladly allowing his hand to lead him wherever the fuck away. 

_This was some really fucking complicated stuff._


	7. Who Frowned Me This Face?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy some appreciation for PC's floof :)

 

The Doctor led an exhausted Malcolm to the TARDIS. By the time they reached his cell, Malcolm was so tired he was practically sleepwalking, the blanket slipping off this thin bony shoulders. The Doctor frowned. He had estimated that Malcolm would be suffering slight weight loss but somehow he wasn't prepared to see those thin bony shoulders, once encased in those wonderful wools, now bare and covered in cement.

If the Doctor had wasted even a single second… he shuddered. Humans really were the worst creatures the Universe had managed to produce. Capable of the very best, and yet also capable of the very worst. The other man in the cell was awake, thanks to the commotion he had caused. In fact, the whole floor was awake and buzzing, with inmates shouting in confusion. 

The Doctor hauled Malcolm inside the TARDIS, “There’s a bathroom if you go straight and take the first right, and then the first left. After going down the stairs, obviously.”

Malcolm looked at the Doctor through sunken pits. He nodded slowly. 

The Doctor sighed. They were utterly lifeless, coloured the dirty grey of the sea. _Maybe he was too late after all._

Malcolm turned around to enter the TARDIS and then froze. The Doctor looked at him worriedly, and then a smile erupted on his face. _Oh, he loved this bit._

Malcolm turned around in a mad frenzy, his eyes ready to fall off his head, “This… this… this is that fucking tiny wank box? The pedo one?”

The Doctor's smile turned into a grimace. He rubbed his face tiredly in his hands. _He had, officially, dealt with apes of all shapes, sizes and brain power._ “The very same, yes.”

Malcolm got out of the box and circled the TARDIS, taking it all in, clutching his blanket for support. His eyes shimmered in the light of the TARDIS lamp. They glowed a bright blue.

  
“What the… How the…. it’s fucking… it’s FUCKING BIGGER ON THE FUCKING INSIDE?”

The Doctor mouthed it as he said, “Oh, just an old parlour trick, come on let’s get you cleaned up, I have an appointment to keep…”

“Malcolm, who is this guy? Where are you going?” the man was positively panicking now. The Doctor raised a callous eye brow at the man and looked at Malcolm to deign his reaction. He seemed to have just realised that his human also exists. 

“If all your personal belongings have been taken from this cell we can - ” The Doctor started.

“His name is Andy. Frank assaulted him.” Malcolm spoke slowly, but there was something in his voice that was returning. Something dark rumbled under. “If you are the Doctor, you would care.”

“I do care. I care about getting you out of here.” The Doctor was getting annoyed.

“About that. We need to talk.”

“We will once you can stand and string two sentences together. You look like someone left you out in the sun to dry.”

Malcolm _laughed._ It was slightly sinister to start, but it soon devolved into giggling. 

“Seriously though, are you sure you’re the fucking Doctor?”

“I picked up your mannerisms. Don’t” Malcolm laughed even more loudly than before, “ _Gloat._ OI” The Doctor humphed angrily. “Don’t gloat or I’ll hit you with my spoon.”

Malcolm wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sorry, this just reminded me of that time when Sam cussed.”

“Yeah, still not doing that. Look, are you getting inside or what?”

“Andy, I promised I would have your back didn't I?”

Andy nodded, looking confused and sad when he realised what was happening. “I don't know what they're saying about me these days, but if you're my pal, I’ll have your back. Trust me,” Malcolm turned away from the Doctor and walked resolutely into the TARDIS, all vestiges of tiredness gone. “I’ve had enough of being impaled by fucking Roman legions in the back.”

The Doctor patted Andy on the back and entered the TARDIS. _Maybe_ , the Doctor thought,  looking at Malcolm making half annoyed half dazed faces at the central console, _maybe he wasn't so late after all._

_“_ How is it doing this? Make it stop.”

“If I make it stop, the Universe will implode and I’ll lose my only home.”

“Did you really fucking do a surgery to look like me? Have you been secretly stalking me?”

“Shut up.”

The Doctor engaged the dematerialisation lever and the central column thrummed with life.  Malcolm cursed.

“You have? You perverted fucking wanker!”

A spoon missed the top of Malcolm’s head as it sailed across the huge expanse of a room.

“Don’t ever call me that again!”

“Then how did you know today was the day that I was going to be…” Malcolm’s voice caught in his throat as horrid images began to cloud his senses. He pushed them down, internalising it. 

The Doctor smiled sadly, “There’s no point internalising trauma. Those images are burned into your memory forever. Let it out. I promise, it’s better that way.”

“Stop talking, just stop, fucking talking, how are you doing that, how are you..” Malcolm backed away from the Doctor. His reasonable side was taking over again, as it always did. He wasn't a human after all; he was a machine.

And he was talking to a man who had the same face as Malcolm did. Just as Malcolm could recognise the Doctor's moods, the Doctor now had that entry into his mind as well. He could read what his thoughts were, and _oh fuck_

_Oh fuck._

_He can do that weird Spock, mind thing._

Malcolm backed away from the console in fright, nearly falling over the railing into the darkness below. He felt caged and despite the blanket, and he shivered. “It’s fucking freezing how the fuck are you- ”

The Doctor placatingly moved away from Malcolm, his hands raised high, “Malcolm, listen to me and I’ll explain everything. The TARDIS has a centralised heating…” he paused and corrected himself, “The AC in here takes a while to adjust. I’ve got a great metabolism so I feel hot pretty quickly. Alien, remember?”

“As for the timing of my landing, the TARDIS is an amazing ship but sometimes she can’t resist a little drama. C _an you,”_ he glared accusingly at the central column. “Would save me a lot of trouble and lives if she could. I would have come in the morning and taken you away. But bureaucracy makes idiots of us all.”

“Why did you come.” Malcolm asked in a voice barely higher than a whisper. “Why bother with me? Why bother to fucking even look like me? Look at me!” he forcefully entered the Doctor's line of vision. “I’m pathetic! I lost the only one job that I cared about, fucking performed a precision fucking strike on my own career like a fucking drone in Afghanistan and yet you chose to… to do… this…” Malcolm raised a shaking hand to the Doctor’s face, advancing on him like a zombie. 

He was afraid. He was confused. He was uncertain. There was something about this room that let him grab onto the Doctor’s lapels and fall to the ground. It made him feel more pathetic. Like a raw nerve ready to be impaled by a giggling Goebbel’s impersonator. 

“You are not pathetic Malcolm. And I’ll tell you why. Get up. Uppity, up, up, up.” The Doctor hauled Malcolm up with one arm and pushed the TARDIS scanner towards him. 

“Fuck is this?” Malcolm grumbled.

“Look at the images.”

The scanner flashed with pictures of men. There was an oldie, followed by another black haired one with a recorder, followed by a dapper old man with a velvet jacket, then…

“What the _fuck_ is he wearing.”

“Shush. It was a phase.”

“This one’s wearing a vegetable.”

“Vegetables are pretty healthy.”

“What is this, an alien fucking convention for clowns? Fucking fuck these two are fucking _mental._ ”

Then came the lad with a stopwatch and Jesus-hair. “Better. Could do with a-“

“Shut up.”

The picture slid away to reveal a slightly older man with spiked hair, looking miserable. 

“Yeah, know the feeling. Who are they, your boyfriends?”

“Oh, you wish.”

The one after that showed a balding man with a purple shirt and a black leather jacket, looking sombre. After that came a young, dashing looking man with a thick, brown hair styled in a mohawk, and brown mischievous eyes. And then - 

“Wait. That’s the Doctor. That’s bowtie guy.”

The picture of the Doctor slid away and replaced it with the picture of the man who resembled Malcolm. He looked at ease with life. It reminded Malcolm achingly of his life before Prison. This was probably a picture from then - 

‘These are all the faces I have ever worn.” The Doctor murmured, walking slowly around the console, staring at the buttons, flicking switches at random. The TARDIS pinged and whirred.

Malcolm blanched, “Worn wha-“

“I promised I would explain. I’m an alien right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well my people decided, one fine morning, that they’d pretty much had it with death. Long story short, they invented a way to cheat it.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed, “Cheat _death?_ Sorry, Pound Store Dumbledore, I think you missed your stop at the mental fucking hospital for the chemically unbalanced…!”

“So you can believe a human turning into a wasp. And a box that’s bigger on the inside. But not cheating death?”

“No.”

“Well, try to. Time Lords were given the ability to regenerate their bodies in the event they were too old and injured to heal naturally. With one small catch.”

“Being?”  
  
“You can’t keep the same face. Confuses the time streams. _Yes I said time streams.”_

Malcolm continued to stare blankly at the Doctor. “Still doesn't explain why you would chose my face.”

“Ah. Now that’s the question isn't it.” The Doctor said softly.

Malcolm felt a sense of trepidation. Why would an alien, _a fucking fancy pants Time Lord with his time streams and shit,_ care about him? A government officer? Nobody cared about them. And he wasn't even that anymore. There was always a caveat with these things, he fucking _knew_ it. Any second now, the Doctor was going to open his mouth and display his true green, tentacle - infested self, and eat him in one whole and there was nothing he would be able to - 

“Because I saw myself in you. I was dying when I met you, you know.” The Doctor was leaning on the console, his arms folded on it. Malcolm shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Hurtling towards Trenzalore… I thought I was going to die. I had burned up my Last regeneration. Nothing was left. Kaput. Like an old computer. You keep changing the parts and upgrading the software, but eventually it’s gonna fizzle out.” Malcolm’s eyes met the Doctor’s, and for once in his life, he believed that he was indeed 2000 years old.

  
“I was miserable and self destructive, not unlike yourself now. More accurately, not unlike the time you were facing the Goolding Inquiry. Yeah I saw.” The Doctor smiled at Malcolm’s questioning gaze. “It was magnificent. You were… magnificent. Like a star fizzling out.“

“Oh… cheers ya fucking twat.”

“No I’m serious! Dying stars fizzle out with the most beautiful light displays in the universe. Supernovas, hyper nova explosions… I promised myself and a friend we’d see them all.” The Doctor said in earnest, his eyes glazing over.

“Okay, cut through the emotional twattery, alright, because I don’t-“

“In short, I care about you because I saw how you cared. And what it did to you. Because I’ve been through it before! You fought, because you could not bear to see something you’d built being torn apart - you had a duty of care to your party and your ideals! You fought, because despite the fact that everyone hates you, you’re still the only person in the room who can save them from whatever hell they fall into. You fought, because you were not going to let those privileged monkeys dictate what’s right and what’s wrong!”

“In short, behind all those cusses and all the backstabbing and leaking, _you_ were searching for the answer to a question - you wanted to know if you ever were a good man. And if you could ever be a good man” The Doctor made his way around the console, facing Malcolm. He put his hands into his pockets and gazed at the central column, which Malcolm noticed was moving up and down, like a giant respirator.

“And I get that. Every day of my life I’m fighting a new battle, constantly asking myself that same damn question. And you know what? I’ve lived so long, but I still can’t answer it. And I don't think I ever will… that’s fine. But I wasn’t going to watch someone who had saved my life rot away in a cell on the backside of history. So,” the Doctor touched his own face and smirked, “I decided to remind myself. Remind myself of who I am and what I am trying to do.”

The silence that followed the Doctor’s speech was deafening. Malcolm honestly expected applause to start from somewhere. This was the closest he had ever gotten to a praise in his life, and this was including the one time the PM hugged him after a long stake out at 10 Downing.

His face felt oddly warm. Confused, he touched his cheek and found it was wet. He blinked twice to regain his composure. He looked up at the Doctor who smiled sympathetically.

“What now then? We go running off into the sunset?”

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders and looked at Malcolm, raising a suggestive eyebrow, “We could. If you wanted.”

For a brief second, an emotional, weepy part of Malcolm almost said yes. And then…

“Oh fuck off that was sarcasm.”

The Doctor furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, “Really? Clara’s right I’m really bad at figuring that out. Well in that case, I’m taking you to UNIT headquarters. Clean yourself up, you've got a job.”

“A…a what?”

“A _job._ And you're welcome. Really how slow are you humans, honestly. It’s like watching plants grow.” The Doctor extracted a box of ice cream from his coat, shaking his head. He hunted for a spoon in his coat. Not finding any, he shrugged and dug into the ice cream with his finger. Malcolm looked at the Doctor with a sense of utter confusion and a touch of ‘ _I would really like a fucking bed. Just about now would be great._ ” This guy was really an alien? He looked like one of those peaceful activist wankers that loved setting camp in front of Westminster, protesting taxes or trees or…. “ _Argh I don’t care I just want clothes now”_ Malcolm’s brain protested through the shivers _._ Malcolm sighed.

“Alright David fucking Attenborough, we get it. Go find a spoon and eat like some decent human being.”

“This is _my_ TARDIS. You’re the guest here. And I’m not human. I know, I’m so convincing  at it, I forget that I’m Time Lord myself. Never doing that again.” The Doctor looked thoughtful as he sucked at his ice cream laden fingers. “Too stressful. And i’m the one with two hearts.”

Malcolm rubbed his eyes. This was going to be fucking tedious. “Bathroom?”

“Straight, first right, first left. She’ll help you.”

“Who’s she.”

“My TARDIS of course.”

“Yup. Still a mad cunt.”

“OI!”

***

He took back whatever shit he had said about the TARDIS. 

This thing was fucking _orgasmic._

He was inside the shower of a spacious as _fuck_ bathroom. There was a huge bathtub but Malcolm ignored it and went straight for the shower. The water cascaded down the faucet, practically smacking his face with the hot jet. _Fuck, it was scalding._ He turned to look for the cold knob and then, miraculously, the water temperature began to decrease. 

_“_ The TARDIS is mildly telepathic. She can’t read your thoughts, or indeed understand them, but she gets the basics.” he remembered the Doctor say.

God bless those posh Time Lord cunts with their voodoo mind tricks. 

It was like the TARDIS had a 5 star hotel rammed into it - and Malcolm suspected it probably did. 

He let the water soak every muscle in his body, working the stress out from every tendon and joint. The disgust he felt earlier on in the social room at his nakedness was gone - that dirty feeling of being pinned down tried rearing it’s ugly head again, but the warmth of the shower washed it away. He felt safe. Protected. Warm.

He grinned madly. This was the most human he’d felt in decades. “Ironic if you think about it.” he said to no one in particular. “Ironic, that I feel so _fucking_ human inside an alien ship.”

“Is the water infested with tiny alien shit then? How the fuck does _he_ know what all a human could need?”

Feeling oddly adventurous, Malcolm tasted the water gingerly. It smelled a little, but it was definitely water. 

_Weird._

After what seemed like an eternity, Malcolm walked out of the shower, sopping wet, and grabbed a fluffy white towel, wrapping it tightly around his waist. He approached the mirror, rubbing his hair and head furiously, feeling cleaner than he had in ages.

He hazarded a look. His face was still sunken and he looked like he was 100. But he had never seen his eyes look so fucking full of life. 

Maybe there _was_ something in the water.

His nose was red from the assault with the towel, along with the rest of his face that was flushed red making him look like a new born baby. _And he felt like it too._

Malcolm continued to admire his ‘fresh’ look. His hair had grown into an large, grey mop in those 6 months without a barber. _No, not a mop that was disgusting_. A _magnificence._ His rubbing had given it a windswept look - and it stuck out in an oddly aesthetic manner. White highlights had infiltrated his greying locks, and the bathroom light illuminating the tips of his hair gave the impression of a halo around his head. Soft hair formed curls exquisitely around his hairline, making it look like he had a gigantic, keratinous crown. Malcolm ran his hands through it, “Jesus fucking Christ it’s _actual_ hair.” Malcolm whispered reverently. He was astonished at the surprises this husk of a meat sack could throw at him from time to time. He tried to flatten it with his hand, causing more chaotic strands to stick out. He considered asking the Doctor for scissors.

_Nah._

He was going to keep it. 

Satisfied that his face was pretty much as it should have been, he walked out of the bathroom to find a neatly folded pile of clothes waiting for him on the bed. A small note was left on it. Malcolm read it.

“Reached UNIT HQ. We’re waiting outside the TARDIS. Try not to get lost. x Doctor”

Malcolm reached for the clothes the Doctor had pulled out for him, cringing in anticipation. If his sense of style hadn’t improved with age, he was, well, truly and royally fucked. He pulled out the first item of clothing and almost dropped it in shock. 

It was his black suit. The suit he had worn to the Inquiry. The full ensemble, complete with the red tie. The Doctor must have ransacked his cupboard at home… but wouldn't someone have noticed? Michael or David?

“Awhhh you… _you_ …”

He grabbed the note and turned it around. It read: 

“Welcome back, Mr. Tucker.“

_You patronising little wanker._

After Malcolm had robed, he turned to the full sized mirror in front of him and almost shuddered. It was like he had stepped back in time, to six months ago.

Six months ago? “More like six fucking millennia.”

Any moment now, he expected Sam to walk in, ashen faced, holding his notes and folder in a shaky hand.

Shoving those thoughts inside the deepest pits of his mind, he left the rage and anger and betrayal he felt that day and let them bubble at the surface as he walked through the blue corridors of the TARDIS. He let those emotions consume his soul as something deep inside him awakened with a roar.

_The kraken awakes,_ Malcolm thought. 

As he stepped out of the TARDIS and breathed in the deep, scented air of a large office, not so different to the one back at 10 Downing. He smiled.

He felt like himself again.

He felt like Malcolm F. Tucker again.

_Malcolm Tucker had entered the building._


	8. For Broken, Miserable and Lonely Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a slightly short one... I wanted a nice Emo title for a change XD
> 
> The next one will be longer, promise!

“You sure this is a good idea?”

“Of course I am, the man was positively beaming when I got him out of there.”

“Doctor, you can’t even tell the difference between a smile and a frown!”

“Can’t I?” 

Clara stood next to Kate and watched as the Doctor sat with his legs atop Kate’s bureau, scattering papers everywhere. He didn't seem to notice; he toyed with the yo-yo in his hand absently waiting for Malcolm to come out of the TARDIS. 

“Is he okay in there?”

“Of course he is!”

“Doctor…"

“What is it? _”_ He looked up at both women who were glaring down at him like annoyed parents. _Was it annoyance? Or were they flirting with him?_

He could never tell… decoding River had been bad enough. The Doctor wanted to rip his head out. One regeneration ago and no one would be questioning him like he was three years old. Or like he was back at the Academy. Yuck - horrible memories, best left hidden under a large rock. Or a neutron star. Whichever is easier.

 _This regeneration didn't seem to be having an luck with the women either,_ the Doctor mused silently, _Well, too bad. Their loss._

“Doctor.” Kate said in a worried tone. “This man… are you absolutely sure he will be able to deal with the content of our operations? Most of our interviewees for this job have experience dealing with large scale alien invasions and have repositories of knowledge on alien species before hand. Which as you might be aware,” Kate glared at the Doctor who has now fidgeting with paraphernalia on her desk, “Is rather important in this line of work. This man has nothing. And we are already giving him the charge of a full scale press briefing announcing his return? As much as we admire your flair for theatrics - ”

“Malcolm Tucker has been through worse. He has seen far worse. And he accepted it with such speed I was honestly impressed. For a human, he has shown extreme tenacity in handling situations under duress, and may I say that he has an almost _astounding_ imagination and brutal straightforwardness, which I would argue is more important to someone working here. And also he was Director of Communications to your Prime Minister, which sounds pretty important. What more could you possibly need from me?” The Doctor said, straightening in his chair, fixing his stare on Kate. “You spoke with him yourself.”

“And he dismissed half of everything I had to say to him about protocol and the alien artefacts that we were dealing with.”

“Were any of those alien artefacts strictly relevant to that incident?”

“No not really I was just - ”

“Kate.” The Doctor leaned forward, resting his head on his steepled fingers. “This man reminds me of myself in more ways than one, which for the record, I think is a fantastic thing.” 

Clara groaned.

“He is rational, straightforward, and adaptable, and has a disdain for this race that I find almost empathetic. He didn't care about those alien artefacts because they were not relevant to him, at all. What’s the point of clogging your brain with bits of fluff.” The Doctor gestured wildly in the air. “He retains things that are important - he recognised who I was, or at least hazarded a guess, just by looking at my screwdriver.”

“But-”

  
“He will be an asset to UNIT. Trust me.”

Kate placed her hands on her hips, not entirely convinced. Clara, who had remained silent this whole while piped up, “What about the military bits?”

“What about them?"

Kate joined in, “Yes good point. We have a fair bit of leg work for everyone to do once in a while.”

“All the running around?” Clara continued, bolstered, “He isn't exactly 20 you know. That does stuff to us humans.”

“I’m 2000.”

“Doctor, you’re a Time Lord!”

“Look Kate, if you throw in your directors for communication and media management onto the front line, no wonder UNIT isn't able to - ”

“Ah Mr. Tucker, good to see you again - ” Kate cut across the Doctor and strode over to where Malcolm was standing, stretching out her hand for him to take. Malcolm shook it jovially, “Great to see you again, Director Stewart. Long time since Christmas, eh?”

“Oh you have no idea. Earth just seems to become noisier and noisier day by day.” Kate said, with a hint of mystery in her voice. Malcolm laughed politely.

The Doctor raised his eyebrows in a knowing recognition. Malcolm was back. The Doctor resisted an urge to laugh at the transformation, and patted himself on the back mentally. 

He could feel him slip into the battle armour he had crafted for himself during all those years in politics as Director of Communications. The Charm knob had been set all round to stun. 

Broken, lonely things always had armour. _“And of course I would know that.”_

“Right, we should be off.” The Doctor shook himself and entered his own callous armour. He got off the chair and advanced towards the TARDIS. “Best of luck for…er…” he paused, trying to formulate the right words, “Whatever it is you humans need luck for at times like this. Come on Clara, I have my mind set on this particularly explosive star in Cannis Major.”

Clara rolled her eyes and followed the Doctor in, politely smiling at Malcolm, “Watch out for all the running.” Malcolm smiled back and bent his head in acknowledgement.

The Doctor suddenly popped his head outside the box, “Malcolm?”

Malcolm turned around, and just caught the phone the Doctor had tossed into his face, “I considered buying you a new one - ”

“Which we would have ended up paying for…” Kate said under her breath.

“- but I guess you’re a sentimental one. Underneath all that… you know… _Scottishness._ ”

Malcolm smiled sarcastically at the Doctor, and looked at his phone, that had been confiscated from him in prison. But the Doctor did understand what that gaze meant. It was _so_ relaxing having the same face as someone - you literally knew what they were thinking. He should’ve been a Zygon - it would make reading other humans so much easier.

The Doctor shut the doors of the TARDIS and ambled to the console room, fiddling with the coordinates. 

“Why did you do it, Doctor? Why did you break him out?” Clara asked, making her way towards him.

“Oh Clara Oswald, don’t you know.” He pouted at his friend, “I’m all for fixing broken, miserable and lonely things.”

“Really? You’re saying that?”

“What? Isn't that what Bowtie would have said?”

He earned a smack on the shoulder.

_Oh, but if only she knew how true that was._


	9. UNIT Rocks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is inspired by a fantastic soundtrack by Murray Gold of the same name :)

 “If this were Christmas - ”

“I am sure your thoughts would have been more salacious than they are now,” Kate smiled knowingly. “They’re just friends, from what Ms. Oswald has been telling me.

“Ah, so is that what you lot do as well? Babysit the Doctor in your free time? No wonder no one takes you seriously.”

“I assure, keeping tabs on his human companions is in the interest of this planet. There are some remarkable men and women that we have gained in our force thanks to the Doctor.”

“So what does he run like a interstellar Craigslist in there?”

“Of sorts. I would say that he enjoys company, once in a while. It can get rather lonely travelling for 2000 years. He is a rather excellent judge of character."

“Pretty fucked then.” Malcolm said indicating at his face. “Sorry” He raised his hands as he looked apologetically at Kate, “It’s just out of habit, my bad -”

Kate simply smiled and cut across, “We’ve contacted some of your old colleagues, Mr Tucker. We have capable researchers, and we like to know what we’re getting into.”

“Oh that's good. So swearing is fine, yeah?”

“Moderately, yes. I think we can all do without some verbal violence being thrown around as well.”

 _Yeah right. No wonder you little shites can barely get anything done - it feels like a fucking old age home in here,_ Malcolm’s inner monologue muttered. On the outside, he just smiled congenially. 

“So what’s the deal then? The Doctor’s just plonked me on your doorstep like this is some fucking Dicken’s novel orphanage, by the looks of where this conversation is going”

“That is not entirely untrue. We are glad to have you, honestly, but we pretty much have been stretched to the limit here in terms resources. So, we should be seeing the Officer for Public Relations… for the time being you can help him sort this out.” Kate grabbed a few sheets of paper and hurried out of her office, Malcolm following at her heels. 

“You have an hour to prepare for the Press Meeting. I’m sorry we couldn’t delay, apparently the PM’s office wants this mess sorted out right now. but don’t worry” Kate added with a sardonic smile, “Apparently the press room has been fully- we haven't had that since the incident with the cubes. So you will have quite the reception.”

Malcolm made an sound in his throat, and took in the building he was in. It was a stately one, and presumably a lot like Downing, because it had a mixture of old and new. People hurried about wearing an assortment of lab coats, suits and military uniform. Malcolm genuinely looked around - taking in the sights and sounds of all the people milling about him. He realised that they were in the more homely, older part of the complex.

“Considering the nature of how you were broken out of prison, there is a lot we have to work on covering up. The press are swamping us for answers, thanks to the Doctor’s dramatic exit and his letter. Problem is, the police were unable to redact the fact that it was him who gave it to them.”

Malcolm looked at the watch in the room. It was 12:30 pm. _Second breakfast time_ , if he converted it to Downing time. He really had a fucked up sleep schedule that jail had tried to hammer back to normal (and nearly did), but smelling the old oakwood bureaus and warm papers acted like a more hyped up form of caffeine to Malcolm’s brain.

“How long has it been since I left prison?”

“About three hours or so. Considering that we’ll have an hour before the press are well and truly upon us, we should…” She stopped and cast a sideway glance to see Malcolm  listening to her in earnest. 

Malcolm looked at her and frowned at her sudden silence. “We should what?”

“So you’re not bothered by us concocting an entire story about how you were smuggled out of prison and compelling you make an appearance to the very people who tore you down?”

Malcolm huffed. _Really, who the fuck did this woman think he was? Some incompetent wanker from the Green Party?_ _  
_

“Sweetheart I was in charge of mopping up the shit spewed from a loud, diarrheic baby every 20 minutes, and this baby is known to the world as the British Government. I’ve had to dissect more people than a fucking anthropologist. So trust me when I tell you that I've spent my entire life working with my arse tightly squeezed to a deadline.”

“What about the press appearance? You barely have any time to prepare and this is the media we are talking about! UNIT cannot take the same kind of hits that the British government can - we cannot afford to make them any angrier with us. And considering your track record - ” Kate stopped in her rant, looking horrified at what she was just about to say.

Malcolm looked at Kate that she had gone crazy - spin was all about diplomacy, of course Malcolm knew that!

_Why would she keep saying that… oh._

“I see what this. I think I’ll have to prove my worth yeah? Make it worth your time.”

Kate immediately withdrew, trying to sound diplomatic, “I don’t mean to - ”

Malcolm grinned inwardly. Her perfectly painted mask could not hide the complete lack of faith she had in him at this point. Though, in her defence, it was fair that she did feel fucking terrified. She had an organisation, that seemed to be trying to consolidate it’s position with its member nations more than it was trying to protect Earth from extraterrestrial threats. That would not do, and Kate knew that. She had to be careful. And yet here he was, a civilian, trying to help them sort out a literal prison break out conducted by an alien. 

She was pragmatic, and Malcolm could respect that.

Under normal circumstances, Malcolm would simply have sectioned the entire situation to rot in some cabinet in his office, but right now he had to muster all the dark powers he had traded his soul in for to help sort it out. And he would. Because Malcolm would rather be out there on the front lines, battling with his hands tied behind his back, than be in Cell 712. 

He was never going back in there.

He held up his hand to stop Kate, “I completely understand. I really do. Just tell me how I can help and I will gladly do so. You saved me from prison, it’s the least I could do.”

Kate sighed, visibly relieved, “Well then buckle up, Mr. Tucker. You have a long hour ahead of you.

 

***

Kate entered the Public Relations office, and Malcolm let his eyes wander to the occupants in the room. There was a dark lady, with dark flowing air and ample hips cataloguing some papers on the desk, while a tall, slender man in glasses chatted jovially as he tied a scarf around his neck.

“And I told Julius that that had to be the most _atrocious_ thing I had ever heard! Free tickets to both Test Matches? The Prime Minister really does spoil him.”

“Good evening Mr. Nicholson. Might I formally introduce Mr. Malcolm Tucker.” Kate gestured. 

The man turned to face Malcolm and Kate, and Malcolm repressed the urge to sock the man in the bleeding face. 

“Nicholson? You’re related to Julius?”

“Ah Mr Tucker! The new celebrity! Lord Alex Nicholson,” he shook Malcolm’s hand with a stupid grin plastered on his face, “Julius’s step brother. You know Julius of course?”

“Like a prostitute dreads AIDS.” Malcolm murmured

“Sorry didn't catch that?”

“From the good old days,” Malcolm corrected with a smile. 

“My, my you were quick to come out of that Inquiry pickle weren't you? Ghastly, ghastly…” Lord Nicholson murmured. 

“Erm, Mr. Nicholson,” Kate smiled a little worryingly, “The catching up can wait, we have to debrief Mr. Tucker on the press statement we were planning for him.”

“Yes of course, Grace I’m sure you have it -“

“I have it here, Director,” the lady chimed in. “Grace Jones, Mr. Nicholson’s PA.”

Malcolm shook Grace’s hand, smiling tightly, “Not that great a place for an introduction, eh?”

“Not the best conditions, no.” Grace Jones smiled warmly, and handed Malcolm the script he would be using while addressing the press members and officers. “We do things here in an American style, with a podium and everything. I hope that’s alright?”

“As long as I get to bite a few heads off and drag them off into my personal torture dungeon, everything’ll be fine yeah,” Malcolm winked. He took the paper and scanned through the statement he would be releasing in 45 minutes.

“Now there Mr Tucker, you’ve just been dragged out by Director Stewart, so no biting of heads please - ,”

“What the fuck is this?” Malcolm’s eyebrows threatened to fall of his forehead. His disgust was apparent - he had seen fresh faced interns at Downing do a better job than this. “Do you honestly expect me to say this?”

“Mr. Tucker,” Alex Nicholson began authoritatively, “I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate…”

“No, no listen to this,” Malcolm selected a line and began to read, “ _The video footage of the incident…_ Firstly, who let those little cunts leak the footage of that?”

“They are the police, not little…little…” Alex Nicholson stuttered, and Malcolm acerbically cut across, “They are tiny CUNTS and you are not doing the world a favour, or indeed this organisation, by allowing sensitive information you can control to slip into the hands of those hyenas. Do you honestly even _know_ the kind of gullible, fear - mongering _twats_ you are dealing with?”

Grace and Alex had been stunned into silence. Kate raised her eyebrow, “Well, we are not allowed to tell the police what they can and cannot do.”

“And I can’t control what those pneumonic wankers for Ministers decide to wheeze into the press’s dictaphones. What I can do, is make sure that the editor gets a lovely illustration of his balls on a silver fucking platter with the words, “Beware the arse fangs of Tucker” written in baby blood.” 

He didn't give any of the three time to react to that visual imagery, “Anyway, reading ahead, “ _Mr Tucker has been discharged from prison under the aegis of UNIT for his help in locating a Vespiform hive that has been targeting the government for months. We have full reason to believe, that Mr. Tucker would have knowledge of their whereabouts, having come in contact with a member of their species before - s_ eriously, what the fuck is this, a rejected script for Star Trek? And why the fuck does this not mention the Doctor at all? Do you think they’re gonna ignore the inconsistencies in the report? I know you hate me Nicholson, but don’t throw me under a fucking bus!”

“We are not going to mention the Doctor’s involvement… we will simply mention that the video was doctored and that the police deny ever seeing such a video. And that is the most we can do about it.”

He glared at the three people standing before him. “That’s ridiculous.”

Kate spoke up, “The Doctor is always kept out of any of the reports and records that we reveal to the public. He's nothing but a passing shadow to everyone on this world. Nothing more. The police will not want to complicate matters by pressing charges against the Doctor and that’s good enough.”

“And pray tell me why the fuck is that?” 

“He is nobility. And a complicated space time event.”

“I know he’s a Time Lord and all that bonneted fuckery, but he’s _alien…_ ”

“He married queen Elizabeth.”

Malcolm stared at Kate in stunned silence. He decided not to dwell on how on Earth did _that_ happen. 

“Okay then why the Vespiform thing? I thought we’d buried it. _”_

“Well you know where the bones are buried!” Kate interrupted

“Yes but the intention of burying it was so that none of those conspiracy theorist wankers could take any more digs at the party! If we start getting people all panicked again, the next thing you know, there’ll be people on the streets- “

“Mr. Tucker need I remind you that your loyalties are now to UNIT? I understand your political commitments, however getting you a clean chit and saving UNIT any more damages is of prime importance to me!”

Before Malcolm could argue. Grace timidly spoke up, ““We had to hustle up some brief pointers on about _why_ we broke you out… the Vespiform incident that happened in 10 Downing, 2 years ago seemed like the best option because you were directly involved. We will use that as a cover to explain why you’ve been dragged out of prison. Special services. We have done this before with certain prisoners.”

“Great. Just fucking fantastic. So the press are supposed to believe that the reason I’m back is because there’s a fucking wasp on the lose and for all we know he could be peacefully fucking a flower in the countryside?”

“If there’s a flower big enough, sure.”

Malcolm cradled his head in hands, muttering “This is worse than Bat People.” he raised his eyes, feeling the usual fatigued anger course through him, “And like hell anyone will believe that. Also, does the government seriously know about this? If you go about accusing their ministers to be aliens, I don't know much about what the government might say, you know, being ex-government member and all, _but you may just find their New Director of Communications ramming an email full of shite up your arses.”_

“Mr Tucker, I know full well that you are concerned about what the government will say, but will you give us some credit where it’s due?” Alex NIcholson pleaded, “We have already communicated this script to the new Director of Communications and he's fine with it. He’s agreed to coming with a statement saying that they are fully cooperating in this investigation.”

Malcolm resisted the urge to laugh, “How fucking _gullible_ are you? Jesus, North Korea has a more politically sound leader than you lot, and that boy’s a lunatic… Alex, I was the Director of Communications, and might I say, probably the fucking best, and when I say that they will drop you faster than a hot potato that came out of a sauna, they really will.”

“The current Director is more diplomatic than you Malcolm. I am sorry, but he actually does give a damn about UNIT.” Kate fumed. “We sent you letters remember? Heaps and heaps of emails requesting your cooperation and not one was returned.”

“Aye I do. Because at that point my primary focus was keeping idiot children from - Who is the new Director? Of communications? Ollie right?” Malcolm asked suddenly.

“Uhh Oliver Reeder, yeah.” Grace said checking a few papers. “He corresponds with us. Quite often actually.”

“Yes, lovely boy that. Great manners. Unlike your, ah, rustic charm, Mr. Tucker.” Nicholson added with a toothy grin. 

Malcolm felt his insides bubble with a rage that was threatening to explode his insides at the speed of light. He shut his eyes and calmed the throbbing in his temple, rubbing his forehead. He checked the time. _Fuck. 15 minutes left._

“Malcolm just take the script and go on! We’ve been at this since 4 in the afternoon,” Nicholson whined. “We’re in this mess because of you so I don’t understand why- ”

“BECAUSE THIS IS A SHITE EXCUSE! Listen to me- Ollie Reeder is a backstabbing, spineless maggot, who wants nothing more than to crawl inside the corpses of those others clear for him, and then poison everybody to death with his toxin. And currently, he’s in the seat of fucking power - he has access to more resources than you poor fucks; Oh and he also has the perfect weapon for the occasion to obliterate your organisation from the government pay checks. Because I don’t think that bastard cares whether Queen Elizabeth fucked the Doctor or not.“

“What is that?” asked Kate, panicking.

“A witness. The woman who was with the Doctor and me when Lord Buzz Lightyear tried to kill us. She would know who the Doctor is, and I’m sure the PM knows what he looks like too. The video definitely has the TARDIS in it. So they'll know who did it, and they’ll blame you for trying to cover up for an alien known for breaking into sensitive places. And then, they will fuck you in the arse so hard you’ll be seeing stars without a TARDIS.”

Kate cursed silently, she had forgotten about the other human who was with the two of them that night. The problem had resolved itself so comfortably back then.

Malcolm looked at the confused and disoriented heads in front of him and resisted the urge to whack Nicholson in the face. Then again, someone who shared the same genetics as Julius was probably no better than ‘Humpty Dumpty’ when it came to helping families sleep at night. 

Six months might have made him rusty, but he sure as hell knew how to blast his way through a crisis. Aliens and death rays might have been out of his purview, but politics sure as hell wasn’t.

The press briefing was in 10 minutes, and the situation before him was impossible. It was unbelievable. _It was fucking fantastic._

“Right Ms Jones, let’s get this done faster than an quickie in a dark alleyway, right?”

Grace started and stammered, “Get what done?”

Malcolm patiently said, “I am rewriting this script, to include a statement for why I was taken out of prison, who was involved in breaking me out, and remove any involvement of the Government from any investigation. If we are talking about the Vespiform incident, it will be spoken of in the past tense.”

Kate started to protest and Alex Nicholson was beginning to fume.

“Mr Tucker!”

  
“Malcolm Tucker how dare you…”

“Daddy’s back, so I suggest that the little kids go out and play with whatever robotic shit you have here. Go on. You asked me to assist you. That’s what I’m doing.”

“What are you assisting me with exactly, may I ask?” Nicholson asked, angrily.

“All in good time, Nichols. Hey, I have a great idea! Call Julius… tell him I said hi.” He fake smiled and pushed Nicholoson out of his own office and beckoned Kate to do the same. 

Kate glared at Malcolm. Malcolm pretended to act like a child, “I’ll behave mum, promise!”

“Malcolm Tucker I cannot allow you to- ”

He turned his back to their faces. As far as first impressions at a job go, Malcolm knew his charm offensive had gone straight to the offensive, which might hurt him further down the line. But it had to be done. 

He whipped around to face Grace, who looks equal parts terrified and confused. 

“Please don't worry, I don't bite. And I really need your help if you want your organisation to not be fucked in the arse anymore. I can help, I promise.” Malcolm knew that if he could sway the PA into believing him, he would have an important weapon in his arsenal. Because God knew how amazing they could be. They were organised, helpful and really fucking underrated. His thoughts went achingly to Sam. 

For a second, Grace looked at him, eyes wide and unsure. Her boss was still standing behind his back. Malcolm decided on charm, “I don't know how much shit they've been spewing about me ever since I was thrown into jail, but I need you to know that usually cuss. Not usually, actually, I always fucking cuss. It’s violent and it makes me look ten times scarier than I usually am, but when it comes to the people who actually work I will never say anything to intentionally hurt you. I promise.”

Grace said nothing aloud, but her eyes softened. Malcolm internally punched the air. 

_One down. The rest of the planet to go._

“But we can't go around telling them the whole truth, that’s worse! It’d look like we’re trying to undermine the government!”

“Considering the existence of video tapes, we have to be truthful about what happened. I will have to mention the Doctor. Simply drop in his title - senior scientific advisor. Let me finish-“ he raised a finger to silence her, “The Doctor might be a fucking clot who has a proclivity of shoving his nose where it shouldn't be, but I can rustle up an alibi for why he was there, and it would relate neatly to the Vespiform incident.”

“How’s that?”

“I remember why he was there - he said he was checking some scanner. I’ll simply say that he was testing a UNIT manufactured scanner to detect alien life forms, to ensure safety of Queen and Country. He did it before, and he's doing it again. Sounds good?”

Grace stared at Malcolm, her eyes widening,“Yeah that’s a good idea. But that doesn't explain why the Doctor was here after two years.”

Malcolm grinned at Grace, “You’re a sharp young lass aren't ya?” Grace returned his smile, “I have a story I’m spinning about in my head. Don't want to spoil it for the audience,” he winked at Kate and Alex. Kate bristled, “Malcolm we don't have time!”

“I am fully aware of that, sweetheart. But it contains some sensitive details I’m not ready to discuss just yet.” Malcolm grabbed a red Sharpie and slashed at his wrist with the nib. He began to rub methodically. Grace looked at him as if he had lost it. 

“Loved theatre at Uni - did you know Kate, I always looked at your mails at least once. Although it was mostly while shitting.”

Kate groaned.

“You lot are a scientific organisation, that loves to throw weird names about. Then why not do it now?” He brandished a sheet of paper. Grace handed him a pen and he furiously began to write. Malcolm was aware of Grace hunching next to him over the piece of paper, her eyes wide with anticipation. 

Malcolm read what he had written out in his head, “ _The incident of mass power outage and system dysfunction that took place in the prison was the result of a glitch, caused due to the signal interference from a mobile, low frequency, high range scanner that the scientific advisor for UNIT, codenamed the Doctor, had been operating. Said glitch also resulted in the alleged disappearance of the inmate Malcolm Tucker due to a time lag. However, the authorities from the police force do corroborate that that Mr Tucker had been discharged under UNIT orders._ _”_

“Filling their heads with all this technological fluff will confuse them and give us time to confuse them some more.” Malcolm declared as he held out the paper for Kate and Alex to see. 

“Is that it?”

“In my head I have an entire fucking movement prepared to stun those media cunts.”

“Then write it down?” Alex cried, “There’s a lot I have to do now that you’ve gone and changed the script we prepared for you!”

Malcolm narrowed his eyebrows, “I’ve literally just done your entire job. What, in the ever loving fuck, has remained for your bald head to come up with?”

Alex Nicholson bristled, “There are… procedures… and confirmations to be made!”

Malcolm ignored Nicholson with a growl. He turned to Kate, “I have a plan. Best not say anything to spoil the suspense,” Malcolm smiled enigmatically, shoving the paper in his pocket. “Do you honestly think the reporters are going to sit there and stare at my face for however long this thing is? It’s going to be a fuck fest of questions and statements, mark my words.”

“We can ask them to - ” Kate began 

“You will do no such thing. I want them to think they have the upper hand. Let them be as rude and obnoxious as fucking teenagers in at a supermarket. Leave this to me.”

Kate and Alex looked at each other and then nodded. 

“This seems fine.”

“Yes this is well out of line… wait, what?” Alex cried looking at Kate. 

But Kate had made up her mind and she was checking her watch. “Well, time to go Mr. Tucker. You’re on the clock. And you better have a good idea of what you’re doing.”

“Oh you know. Rodeo’s are like my thiiing,” Malcolm wagged his eyebrows at Kate who led Nicholson out of his office. He seemed to be in shock.

Malcolm dragged Nicholson’s computer screen towards him. He looked at Grace expectantly, who immediately logged in.

“Open his mail.”

“His mail?”

Malcolm silently bit his thumb as Grace logged into Lord Nicholson’s email, “Nothing out of the ordinary here, Malcolm…”

“There, _there,_ I knew it I fucking knew it,” Malcolm was grinning in such a vindictive rage, Grace thought he was about to produce a large hunting knife from his coat and stab the laptop to bits. 

“That boring, predictable fuck, Ollie. See,” he pointed at the screen hissing under his breath, “He would have known that UNIT had me, Nicholson has a brother in the government and of course Julius would want to whore himself to the new Director of Communications… of course he would. So he gave him this contact… So Ollie could find out what I was going to say and ensure my downfall in the media eye, again. Good plan. I would be impressed if I weren’t read to truncheon Ollie in the face with my gigantic cock… no euphemism intended.”

Grace grinned “None taken… but we often do this you know. Mr Reeder tends to proof read a lot of our - ”

“Of course the fucking bastard does, he doesn't grasp the concept of decency as well as I do.”

Grace raised an eyebrow, “You were - ”

“Shut up, I mean… wouldn’t you do it,” Malcolm was getting frustrated and he was moving his arms around, “If you had the chance to fuck with an organisation that, in your mind, is not giving you the returns you’d expect for your investment… what better way to do them in than to fucking nuke them in front of the whole world?”

Grace considered what Malcolm had said. A part of her that loathed Nicholson realised that Malcolm was right. There were too many vested interests in the government for this not to be suspicious. “So what do we do -“

“ _Malcolm you’re up!”_ Kate’s voice rang through the door. 

Malcolm allowed Grace to lead him away to the press room, whispering in her ear, “Can you do all nighters?”

“One good black coffee and I’m usually buzzed till 4 yeah.”

“Get the darkest fucking coffee you can find then. Darker than a fucking Tim Burton movie.”

“Gotcha.”

Kate followed a short distance behind them, and Mr. Nicholson was turning progressively sweatier under the glare of the corridor lights.

Malcolm whispered to Grace, stopping her mid pace, “One important thing I forgot to ask- ”

“Mr. Tucker we are going to be late - ”

“No this is important - the Doctor, when he found me…” Malcolm almost faltered. His experience in the social room reared it’s ugly head. But Malcolm found it easier to internalise and compartmentalise - his work had turned him into a machine. And at this point he was glad about it. He braved on. 

“When the Doctor found me, I was about to sexually assaulted. The perpetrators - what happened to them?”

Grace gasped, “Good heavens Malcolm are you alright…”

“ _Hurry. Do you know or no?”_ He hissed

“I don’t know anything about the men who did this to you. But…” Grace screwed her eyes in concentration, “I did see something about a prison stripping a police officer of his badge for violating officer’s conduct. Don't know if that was yours...”

“So nothing about the attempted rape? The police have said nothing about it?”

“No Malcolm I’m…”

Grace was surprised to find Malcolm grinned, “Well wouldn't it be convenient if two breaking headlines suddenly became one major fuckstravaganza of a story? A credible story with a little social justice thrown in? Sorry to spoil it for you, by the way.”

“Malcolm, I understand that this is a serious issue regarding the prison system but what's this got to do with the Doctor’s appearance? It was purely coincidental, wasn't it?” Grace whispered back. Kate and Alex walked ahead and began to arrange the venue for Malcolm. 

Malcolm looked at Grace and raised his eyebrow, “Well the police are not saying anything about the Doctor, and as far as anyone knows police officers are stripped of badges for violence. Let’s say that I make a little truth connect two other truths to make a large impenetrable lie? Because, in my experience,” Malcolm added, arranging his suit and tie, “The media _loves_ a juicy little scandal - they’ll eat faster than Jews with manna.”

Grace was astounded by Malcolm’s thought process. “Not only would that completely explain everything, but it will deflect the blame onto the government?”

“Now she’s getting it. Welcome to politics Grace Jones. It’s fucking disgusting”

Grace followed him till the oaken doors, behind which he could hear the sounds of the press milling about, and excited chattering.

Malcolm gulped. He never admitted it to anyone, but he really did have a fear of public speaking. Which is why he preferred his job at the Department of Communications - at least he could bollock wankers from the privacy of his office and they would not be able to see his face. As his stomach contracted and lurched his oesophagus around, he knew that he would rather take on a hive of bloodthirsty Vespiforms than those hell hounds waiting to tear him apart.

Nicholson made to follow Malcolm, but Malcolm held him back, “You’ll just make me puke.” It made him feel much better saying that. 

Grace smiled, reassured. “Nervous?”

Malcolm grinned. Or, at least he hoped he didn't growl when he said, “I’m going to go break a leg. Or Ollie’ leg. Have to make up my mind about that.”

 

 


	10. A Prelude to War

 

Ollie reclined on his chair, his eyes stinging with sleep, as he glanced at his watch. _10:30 pm._ With still two more hours to go till he could officially call it a day, Ollie smiled inwardly and stood up to stretch his legs.  
  
“Sam? Anything new?”  
  
Sam Cassidy poked her head through the door, “No nothing really, Mr Oliver.”  
  
“Dammit Sam I’ve told you you can call me Ollie. You called Malcolm, Malcolm didn't you?”  
  
“Yeah but Ollie sounds weird.”  
  
“Yeah you're right it makes me sound like those fucking train engines on kid’s TV. Get us a latte would you… and oh, send Terry a Mannion cut out again, would you? Thanks Sam.”  
  
Ollie watched Sam stalked out of the office. He thought it was his imagination but Sam seemed much warmer to Malcolm than she did to Ollie in the 6 months they had been working together. Courteous, but cold.   
  
“Don’t know how the bastard did it.”  
  
Ollie looked around what used to be Malcolm’s office. Most of Malcolm’s folders and notes had been stored away, at Ollie’s request, in a special cabinet that had been kept under constant lock and key. As much as Ollie wanted to rub it into Malcolm (if he ever did make it out of prison) as to how much he had lived into his office, strategy was strategy and he would be shooting the Golden Goose that laid perfect Turd bombs if he threw them all away.   
  
Ollie wanted to laugh out in joy. As Director of Communciations, Ollie didn’t have a reputation as forceful as Malcolm’s had been and sure as hell, there had been some horrible slip ups, but he really didn't care. Just sitting in this office, knowing that he had played an important part in rubbing the loss into the Malcolm’s wounds was a treat he enjoyed every morning when sat at Malcolm’s desk and handled minister’s with impunity.  
  
Six months had not dulled the sweetness of that moment when he heard Malcolm’s fearful voice, almost begging him on the phone, to direct him to a police station without any press. The feeling of utter _betrayal_ in his voice… Ollie lived for it.  
  
A genteel tap on the door and the appearance of a bald headed man startled Ollie from his reverie, “Ah Julius. Come in.”  
  
“Oliver Reeder. Enjoying the spoils of victory even now I see.”  
  
“It’s like I’m the rat in Ratatouille. Only difference being I killed the chef.”  
  
“Well, I’m afraid to bee the harbinger of some miserable news… Gusteau is back.”  
  
Oliie looked at Julius with confusion, “Who the fuck is that.”  
  
Julius looked at Ollie, equally confused, “Well I assumed we were using Disney analogies, so I decided to indulge myself. The chef you so metaphorically killed, Gasteau - ”  
  
“Julius, what on earth are you on about?”  
  
Julius grabbed the remote and switched on the TV. A BBC presenter was standing in front of a prison, shock evident from her face.  
  
“ _We’re just finding out that ex - Director for Communications Malcolm Tucker has just been released from prison. Details on the release are unclear, but sources tell us that there were alarms that went off at the police only a few moments ago, that might indicate a criminal intent to this entire situation…”_  
  
Ollie felt his heart sink into his chest. And it didn't stop there. He felt like his heart was was going to escape his body through his penis. In liquid form.  
  
“Fucking hell Julius, how did Malcolm - ”  
  
“The question is not that he has, but it is more about what is he going to do. UNIT asked for his release.”  
  
“UNIT? The - ”  
  
“Secret science boyband, yes I am aware of the lovely epithets floating around. I suggest you get in touch with my contact and find out what they’re about to do next and what this whole fiasco is about…” Julius winked enigmatically.  
  
Alex Nicholson. Julius’ brother. Ollie smiled. A few Oxbridge words had sent that man head over heels in love with Ollie like he was in some fucking shitty American drama where Ollie was the hot British boyfriend.   
“Yeah understood, cheers Julius.” Ollie dialled the number on his phone, but was stopped by Julius.  
  
“Now before you go about dealing with Malcolm’s fate, which I’m sure won’t be a great problem for you now, about the,” Julius looked at the door where Sam was sitting and lowered his voice into a whisper, “ _little meeting we had in the PM’s office?_ ”  
  
Ollie nodded. That had been the weirdest experience of his life, and this was counting the time he saw Malcolm and Jamie gang up against someone. It was oddly humorous and terrifying at the same time.  
  
Most of the PM’s advisors and top government members were there - and Ollie was the chief guest at that occasion. Because he would be the mediator of the truth between the Government and the media - and because he was literally the only person who could stop a scandal, in the event that the contents of that meeting ever got out.   
  
He felt like a nerd who’d get invited to the house parties of the ‘popular club’ in school because he knew how to make fake ids to get the booze.  
  
Not that he was complaining, mind.   
  
The idea was to secretly divert funding from certain organisations - that included UNIT - and public services to donate to an organisation that alleged specialisation in “after-death care.” Ollie thought it sounded like the complete bullshit from those scam callers, that insisted on pissing him off every afternoon.  
  
Who the fuck would care about what happened after death?   
  
Well apparently everyone from the royal families of the great European powerhouses, to most world leaders. All for a small little donation from their esteemed government, and protection to act in complete secrecy. The Prime Minister positively pounced at the chance of having his consciousness uploaded and saved forever, rather than having to deal with the bullshit some _other_ organisations threw at them.   
  
Ollie agreed to it too. His inner fanboy was practically orgasming when he found out about it. The science seemed pretty solid too, and there was even a demonstration from one of it’s top scientists, who showed how the data core could project a consciousness that had been uploaded on there. The woman was slightly terrifying… her blues eyes seemed to pierce through his very soul. But they had been reliably informed that this was a practice dummy.  
  
“An interface. We decided not to use human subjects for the sake of their, ah, privacy.” the man had added, smiling slightly sinisterly.  
  
Julius’ voice snapped him out of it’s reverie, “Our honourable PM would like to know if you will, ah, aid us in this little quest to seek a little more 'bang' for our buck.”  
  
“With this UNIT crisis on I think I can pin on something for the PM to swing at, yeah.”  
  
Julius patted him on the back, “I am so glad we have you now. Malcolm would probably have lobotomised me. Or pinned _me_ up to swing at.”  
  
“Let’s be honest Julius, if Malcolm knew about this he’d probably lobotomise all of us.”  
  
Julius laughed jovially and walked out of the office, amicably waving at Sam.  
  
Ollie rung up Alex Nicholson.   
  
“Ah, Mr. Reeder what can I do for you?”  
  
“I heard you're having a slight, grey, rat to deal with.”  
  
Mr. Nicholson sounded exhausted, “You know, this organisation really has gone to the dogs. We’ve literally been reduced to saving criminals and act like an alien’s henchmen! It’s disgraceful.”  
  
“Can’t be helped, you know, politics and all… well if you’d like, I want to help. You know the high regard that the PM holds UNIT in.”  
  
“Of course, of course. My brother Julius often tell me…”  
  
“Yeah, so I wanted to propose a solution, sir. You could schedule a press briefing an hour after Mr. Tucker arrives at UNIT, and draft a script for him to deliver to the press…”  
  
“That’s what I’m doing my boy, but I simply cant fathom what to…”  
  
“And you can send it over to my office. We can go over a story we both agree on and I’m sure this collaboration will help get this situation out of your hair in no time. Is that alright?”  
“Oh, Ollie my boy, you are too kind for a man in the Department of Communications!” the man said awe struck. “You mustn’t..”  
  
“it’s the least I can do for an organisation working to protect us Lord Nicholson. I would be glad to do it.” Ollie put on the fakes smile as he said that and reached for his coat.  
  
“Ah Oliver Reeder, you fine young man! I will get back to in half an hour if that’s alright!”  
“That’s brilliant, thank you Lord Nicholson. Buh-bye.”  
  
Ollie gently cut the phone.   
  
Fifteen minutes later, Ollie’s email pinged reassuringly with Malcolm’s script on it. With a practiced flourish and a flair for the dramatic, he signed into one of his fake accounts and anonymously sent in the copy to a few select journalists.  
  
_Just adding a bit more fat to the chip fire_. Ollie thought with a relish. He never admitted it, but Malcolm coming back out of prison had really fucked with his head for the last hour, which he spent pointless twirling his phone in his hands, reminiscing the dark ages with Tucker at the helm. He wanted to ensure that he could quickly and efficiently tarnish whatever image Malcolm would try to make with this press conference.  
  
An hour later, with the final copy of the script Malcolm was going to be using in his hand, Ollie called out to Sam, “Sam? Are you free?”  
  
“Yes, and you have a press meeting scheduled at UNIT HQ. I’ve booked you a car”  
  
Ollie and Sam walked down the corridors of 10 Downing as Ollie glanced at the ruined portrait. “Say Sam, you weren't around when that weird wasp incident happened here yeah?”  
  
“No only Malcolm was there, he sent me home. Is it true though?” Sam stopped and glared at Ollie, “Is it true Malcolm escaped prison?”  
  
Ollie sighed, “Well all the evidence seems so. The poor bastard’s definitely gonna get bollocked again,” he waved the script in front of Sam, “I have the advanced preview. Wanna look?”  
  
Sam held her tongue.  
  
“Ah Mrs. Leevensham how nice of you to join us. Sam will be escorting you to UNIT HQ, where we’ll need you to deliver a short statement on the events of the Christmas of 2012. You remember that, don't you?”  
Mrs. Leevensham nodded, ‘Yes of course I do. Bloody pervert that man, the Doctor. Completely mental.”  
  
Ollie led Mrs. Leevensham to the car outside and they entered it. Sam had her coat and phone in her hand, and she stood stupidly outside the 10 Downing Street door. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest.  
  
“What are you doing now Malcolm. How… no, why did you break out of prison? _Come on you stupid bastard what do you think you’re playing at?”_  
  
_“_ Care to join us Sam?”  
  
Sam uttered a final prayer for her former boss and entered the car.

*** 

  
Ollie felt unreasonably pumped when he walked into the posh bustling Press Room of UNIT HQ. The carpets were a thick lush red, which gave him the impression of walking on clouds full of blood.   
  
_Malcolm’s blood._  
  
_How poetic._  
  
“Feel like fucking Shakespeare today.” he said to Sam jovially, “To twat or not to twat, eh?”  
  
Sam smiled and nodded. Inside, she wanted to scream. Sam’s heart continued to hammer in her chest as they got down from the car and made their way to the UNIT press room. Ollie raised a placating hand to the press as he and Sam led Mrs. Leevesham down to their seats at the front. Ollie had said that it would be their ‘pleasure’ to sit there, but to Sam this was nothing more than a shitty deja vu.   
  
Cameras were flashing everywhere and a barrage of questions were being hurled at them.  
  
“Are you aware of the circumstances of the release, Mr. Reeder?”  
  
“Why is the government press officials getting involved in this, Mr Reeder?”  
  
“Who is that woman, Mr. Reeder?”  
  
“All in a good time, people! As you might be aware there have been whispers on the contents of tonight’s press release and I have heard those whispers too… if any of that is true it would be a grave accusation hurled at the government by an organisation that is struggling to maintain it’s grip on reality.” Ollie sounded sombre, almost like he was delivering an epitaph. In Sam’s mind, he probably was.  
  
“This woman here might be instrumental in helping us separate the truth from the Tucker.”  
  
There were some polite murmuring amongst the press, when the security in the room called for order. Everyone took their seats.   
  
Sam wanted to bolt for the door. Any second now Malcolm would come in and make a complete arse of himself; Ollie had made sure of it. And she couldn't think her heart would be able to take it a second time. As cameras trained on the empty podium, she could sense Jamie back at 10, pouring out a whisky for himself, glaring at the TV in silence.  
  
And Malcolm? With six months in prison and no contacts to speak off? He would need a huge miracle to get him out of this one. Something smacked Sam’s head.   
  
“Ow!” she and Ollie turned around to glare at a woman, dressed in a plum purple dress, who was precariously trying to make her way through the cluttered rows, an umbrella in one hand and popcorn in the other.   
  
“Sorry sweetheart… am I late? God it would be a shame to miss him speak…”  
  
“No it hasn't started.”  
  
“Guud.” The lady plonked herself on the seat and rammed a fistful of popcorn in her mouth. “Donno ‘ow ‘oo ‘hoomans ‘anage ‘in ‘ere. It’s sooo hot.” She produced a fan and began to fan herself. Sam noticed a jaunty hat on her head with an assortment of fruits. The woman caught her looking and laughed, patting her hat “Oh just in case I get peckish. Now go on, look ahead, it’ll start any minute now.”  
  
Ollie and Sam looked at each other, with silent understanding passing between them. The woman was fucking mental.   
  
The doors opened and Ollie mumbled, “Let the Hunger Games, begin!”  
  
Every soul in the room buzzed with anticipation and yet the room had a deathly silence descend upon it, as Director Stewart, a dark woman and the bespectacled man who could only be the honourable Alex Nicholson walked in. The man who followed couldn't be mistaken as any other soul of this Earth.   
  
Malcolm Tucker was in the house.

 


	11. Tuckered from Beyond the Grave

“When he used to smile like that, most people used to shit their pants. Including me. Fuck, it’s like he’s Force-choking my soul,” Ollie winced as he caught Malcolm giving him the sweetest, yet most poisonous smile he had ever seen. Ollie shifted uncomfortably in his seat and held the copy of the script to his chest like armour.  
  
Sam didn't care about that - she was worried about his health. His face was pinched and exhausted and his eyes were tiny grey pits. His hair looked like a birds sanctuary. He was wearing the same suit he had during the final days of the Goolding Inquiry, and that did nothing to calm Sam’s nerves, “Oh great, maybe I can close my eyes and pretend this is a bad fever dream from 6 months ago.”  
  
“Good evening to all press officers and reporters present here. My name is Malcolm F. Tucker, and I am sorry for having drawn you out of whatever comfortable hell hole you’d found yourself in on this lovely Wednesday night.”  
  
The lady behind Sam murmured, “God, will you just _look_ at those eyebrows.”  
  
The press briefing had begun.

  
***

Malcolm entered the press room, serenaded by the sound of whooshing blood in his ears. He scanned the room quickly, his fingers crossed in his pocket.  “Oh let him be here, please let him be here, let him have come to gloat, let him be here…YES!” Malcolm's eyes caught Ollie’s and he smiled at him, directing as much venom as he could into that little spasm on his face.  
  
He started, “Good evening to all press officers and secretaries present here. My name is Malcolm F Tucker, and I am sorry for having drawn you out of whatever comfortable hell hole you’d found yourself in, on this lovely Wednesday night.  
  
“Just when you thought you'd had just about enough of me, eh,” Malcolm added smoothly, as he removed his script from his inner jacket pocket. Polite laughs rippled across the audience, and Malcolm felt reassured.  
  
“I would, um, like to read a statement I have prepared regarding the events of tonight - ”  
  
“Are we really supposed to believe the absolute cock and bull story written on there, Mr Tucker? I mean, you do have a reputation for the fantastical, but really… Vespiforms?”  
  
Malcolm recognised the voice immediately, “Ah, Carter was it? From the _Mail,_ yeah? Read your article on me in prison… really, what _is_ 10 Downing saying about me these days? Flattered.” He placed a hand on his heart.  
  
The lady called Carter visibly reddened and dropped her hand, however her face remained resolute. Little did she know that inside Malcolm’s head, he was practically doing a tap dance in joy.   
  
He had anticipated that some wanker would ask him this question. He had counted on it. “Walk into the trap, little piggy. Walk right into it, so I can bite your juicy little leg right off.”

  
***

Sam saw a hint of the all consuming hell fire raging behind’s Malcolm’s cool facade. It would have been the prologue to a massive Tuckering six months ago, but this was six months hence.  
  
The fire died down a little. Malcolm assumed an innocent expression on his face, which immediately sent an alarm off in her head, “Something is _really, really_ wrong here.”  
She looked at Ollie, who had a frown on his face, “I never knew he had the programming for that kind of expression.”  
  
“Well I’m afraid, Ms Carter I don’t know how you were privy to this information,” he cast a look at Nicholson who shifted uncomfortably in his place, “And secondly, I mean, if I knew that simply mailing you the press packages would have been equivalent to me saying anything on this podium, then I think you wouldn't find me standing here at this hour, trying to defend myself from your harsh and judging glares. And no, Ms Carter,” Malcolm straightened himself on the podium, looking down at the press members, “The story of my release is no cock and bull story. There is no investigation into the Vespiforms that is being undertaken, and so I don't need them to defend my release. I would recommended that you stop making presumptions about me. Isn't that the job of the press? Investigate first, hypothesise later? But look at you lot, the best of the best in the industry. In today’s media world, cynicism is money. And what is this,” he gestured at the press room, “If not the perfect venue to go weave lies and untruths with your acerbic and acidic presumptions.” Malcolm stressed the words with scalding anger. Sam could feel the anger he felt on his forced resignation and on Goolding, simmering under the surface.  
  
“So before you do that… before you become a danger to the people and yourselves, and I am here to assure you that you will hear nothing but the truth from me…”  
  
Malcolm paused to hear if there was any dissent. Pin drop silence greeted him, only broken by the sounds of someone eating popcorn.  
  
 _The fuck????_ His brain was saying.   
  
 _You have deflected their attention from the Vespiform incident… script, NOW! Before they realise…_  
  
He proceeded to read out of his script. When he was finished, he could hear the sounds of pens and pencil furiously scribbling what he had said, and cameras clicked in rapid succession, like grasshoppers. _Everything was under control._  
  
But Ollie was not going to let Malcolm win easy. Just because he hadn't brought up the Vespiform incident in his script didn't mean he had denied it’s occurrence. He piped up, “However, Mr Tucker you cannot deny that this scientific advisor has a proclivity for being in places he should not be… case in point being the Christmas of 2012. You were involved in it yourself. How can we be assured that this, _advisor,_ is not a criminal with a, ah, soft spot for a certain person in this room?”  
  
A murmur of assent went across the room as people looked towards Malcolm for an answer. Sam gulped audibly… they had a witness who would refute any lie that Malcolm tried to weave around the story. And the advisor had technically broken into the British government.   
  
To her surprise Malcolm smiled.  
  
 _Ah Ollie. You inexperienced Oxford twat._ Malcolm happily mused. His head was feeling light and giddy from the surge of power he felt when Ollie said that. But he had to be careful… he was treading on dangerous territory. He had noticed the maintenance lady, who was no doubt Ollie’s assurance of Malcolm’s truth.  
  
What Ollie didn't know, was that she was only there for a short time before fucking off. So everything that happened after her departure was Malcolm’s secret.  
  
“Yes I am aware of the criminal repercussions of his actions. However, as it has been clarified before, the advisor in question was carrying out an experiment not dissimilar to the one he was carrying out in prison too, under orders from UNIT. I am sure…”  
  
“So this is the same experiment?” Ollie interrupted, raising himself in his seat, unable to hold back.  
  
“Yes it is.”  
  
“So how is it, _Mr. Tucker_ , that the experiment seemed to perfectly coincided with your stay in prison.” Ollie raised an eyebrow questioningly.  
  
Malcolm paused.  
  
Sam’s heart dropped. _Oh no._  
  
Malcolm puckered his lips together and fidgeted with the edge of the podium. Ollie felt his heart leap. _They'd got him. They'd got him!_  
  
Malcolm murmured, “Because of the scanner.”  
  
Everybody looked at Malcolm, confused, ‘Scanner? What do you mean…”  
  
Malcolm raised his hand to request silence. “The statement regarding the Vespiform incident made in 2012, stated that the scientific advisor in question was conducting a check on a scanner than scans for alien life forms, yes?”  
  
Ollie nodded. This bit was true.  
  
“That’s quite absurd Mr Tucker…” a reporter started.  
  
“So you can believe MRI’s and X-Ray crystallography, but not a biological scanner? Get your nose out of those stupid vampire books and concentrate on the real world for a change, would you? UNIT is doing some stellar research in this field, as exemplified by both scanner runs, in nanotechnology and genome mapping, but of course…” Malcolm looked around the room, “Science doesn't sell does? You wouldn't see a test tube rimming a celebrity now, would you? Well this _nerd_ saved my life on two separate occasions, but of course _,_ you've not come here to try and understand an organisation that’s been here for over 60 years defending your planet… _noo_ you want to hear my pathetic life story…”  
  
“Saved? What do you mean saved?” Mrs Leevensham cried. “That man was a pervert!”  
  
“Ah, hello there,” Malcolm said, shielding his eyes from the glow of the lights, “You’re the lady from 10 Downing, yeah? Well the bit about shutting up and letting me speak applies to you too. So shut up and _listen.”_  
  
Mrs. Leevensham shut up.   
  
The hat lady behind Sam snorted.  
  
“The scanner in question only detected the presence of other life forms, not the number of creatures. This advisor, in the true spirit of a scientist, decided to put me under the suspicion of being an alien too. So, he scanned me and this lady, you remember that don’t you?”  
  
Mrs. Leevensham nodded, aghast.  
  
“While he could ascertain that my friend here was not alien, he was unable to get a clear reading off of me due to elevated adrenaline levels. We ran around quite a bit that night,” he explained carefully, “So he tagged me.” He raised his arm to show his wrist, as everyone craned for a better look. Sam saw a red bruise marking his wrist.  
  
“It’s a nano scanner, implanted under the skin. Makes the area quite itchy. I thought it was an allergic reaction to the wasp, so I didn't check it out. It catalogues the change in adrenaline levels: that catalyses the change in a Vespiform. The less calm you feel, the higher the chances of becoming a murderous wasp.”  
  
No one dared question him. He had already managed to generate credibility and logically related both the events of the Doctor’s presence. Well… almost. Malcolm's insides twisted in anticipation. The metaphorical fucking bazooka of his speech was slowly rolling towards them, like Alzheimer’s.   
  
 _Ethos, pathos and logos Aristotle had said._  
  
 _Well then get ready for a truck load of pathos you sad, ratings oriented fucks._  
  
“Mr Tucker that still doesn't explain why the Doctor was testing out the scanner in the prison. Are you trying to tell us you’re alien?” A snide voice snapped from the back.  
  
Malcolm gave a shaky laugh, “No unfortunately I wasn't that lucky, no. My adrenaline spike triggered the scanner and brought him there.”  
  
The entire room looked at him in silence, as if asking the question, “What triggered the adrenaline spike?”  
Malcolm’s hands shook with happiness. _Oh you beautiful, sarcastic little troll. I could fucking kiss you._  
  


***

  
Sam held onto Malcolm’s words with bated breath. What set off the adrenaline spike? Her mind was screaming, willing her former boss to speak. He had that face on… the face that he had worn the night he had broke up with his ex, the seconds after the verdict was issued after Goolding Inquiry, that expression of hopelessness and guilt and shame. He was shaking…  
  
To her horror a single tear streaked down his sad, old face, as he said in a high quavering voice, “I was sexually assaulted in prison.”  
  
The room erupted with gasps and cameras clicked with such annoying frequency that the room began to buzz. Malcolm’s head hung low, as he grasped the podium for support. He murmured, his voice barely audible above the din.  
  
Only the hat lady silently keeled over with laughter. Sam wanted to punch her in the face, she wanted to strangle her so she would shut up, she wanted to….  
  
“QUIET!” Sam found herself shouting, and then suddenly clapped a hand onto her mouth. She didn't want to hear more, and still she did. She barely ever visited Malcolm in prison and to know that at some point she had looked right through the fact that he was in pain or had been hurt was sending her down a spiralling valley of guilt.  
The voices died down. Malcolm’s eyes found hers, and twinkled.   
  
The room was magnetised.   
  
“Yes. I, Malcolm Tucker, was attacked in prison a few hours ago. They caught me unawares. I was drugged in my sleep and carried out of my cell. When I awoke I was on the ground… bound and gagged… and,” Malcolm had paused, gulping for air as he screwed his eyes in concentration. “And the worst part was that one of my violators was a guard at the prison.” He let out a tiny gasp as if the memory had physically gutted him. “And it wasn't just me who had been violated in there - my inmate Andy… wonderful lad. Soft spoken. Software engineering with a full life ahead of him. Raped, by this horrible gang of thugs who were allowed to terrorise poor men with impunity.” Malcolm stressed on the words.   
  
Ollie cursed under his breath, “ _What the fuck is this some fucking Hollywood prison drama?”_  
Malcolm had to be lying. This was too perfect. Too damn perfect. Either the universe was conspiring to fuck Ollie, or Malcolm knew what Ollie was about to do and decided to bring out the big guns…  
  
Ollie swore and felt eyes piercing the back of his skull.   
  
 _Oh no._  
  
A voice piped up, timidly, “Mr. Tucker, I am afraid I must ask… I’m sure it’s been an ordeal for you…”  
  
“Of course you want proof! Of course you do, don't you? In a world of photoshop and boob jobs what else could I have expected for myself? A nice warm bed? Some humanity? _Maybe a day or two off before I came before the mighty press of this nation?”_  
  
 _“_ For a monster like _me_? Oh, never. _”_ Malcolm’s voice had risen to a low, sarcastic laugh. It sounded almost demonic.   
  
The hair on Ollie’s arm were standing in attention. It was like facing him in the hallways of DoSac again… outwitted and outgunned.  
  
“His name was Frank Gold. The officer was called John Eastwood. Look them up. Go on. They discharged the officer, if I remember seeing the headlines correctly.”   
  
The sounds of phones being hastily removed and texts being written interrupted the soft whoosh of the air conditioners. Malcolm continued, “The Doctor tracked me using the signals that the tracker emitted. I was… I was so scared it must have went off with a bang on his detector. He came to contain the situation, just in case.”  
  
“And then he found me, and called the guards on them. He saved my life.”  
  
Malcolm was manoeuvring himself about the podium like a cobra, his eyes fixed on Oliver. His hands were white on the podium and his face contorted in rage, as he launched into speech again, “As an ex-government official, I am ashamed to be called in league with my successors. I truly am…”  
  
 _Oh bugger, here he goes. Tuckered by Malcolm from beyond the grave, Ollie, well done._  
  
“… shame on you! Shame on you, and your broken system that you are currently using to put pressure on these good men and women… and wrongly accusing them for doing their jobs. And the gall, to come here and witness this drama, _in person?_ Jesus fucking Christ, God knows I loved to witness my handiwork… I have verbally eviscerated so many in this room, I feel like I'm in some shitty rewrite of Ghosts of Christmas past.”  
  
“And yet to see you here, after manipulating and leaking the scripts into ensuring that you could publicly engineer my second downfall? In front of all these people? That’s low even for your standards, Oliver Reeder.” Malcolm’s eyes were huge, almost like a child’s. Sam noticed how his hair made him look positively cherubic in the light.   
  
“But then again, what even defines the standards in your line of work, eh? Come on then,” he raised his arms wide, as if beckoning him, “When I did it, everyone was ready to shower me with their bile. I was hissed at, pushed and pulled, disgraced. Show me then, oh free media of this nation, how you treat this man. Show me the double standards that truly demarcate your kind.”  
  
“But not before you answer for this broken system, Reeder. Not before you answer for the many men and women who have had to suffer the same incidents that happened to me, in silence. Not before you can answer for Andy. Because God knows I will work to answer it. But will you? ANSWER FOR ANDY, DAMMIT” Malcolm stated emphatically, pointing at Ollie. The threat lingered in the air. Malcolm slowly withdrew from the podium, eyes wide in anger as the room reeled from all that they had just heard.   
  
Kate, Grace, and Alex stared at him in stunned silence. Slow claps evolved into a full blown tumultuous applause, and after a second of feigned surprise, Malcolm chastely bowed his head. Sam found herself absently clapping as well.  
  
All those years under Malcolm’s wing had taught her one thing - always read between the lines. You never know what you might find in there. And she had just managed to read Malcolm’s plan, start to finish.  
  
 _You came up with that in an hour. An hour? You even came up with a bloody slogan for the media to use._  
  
A tear formed in her eye as she pushed her chair back, forgetting all protocol, and standing to beam at Malcolm, who grinned back.   
  
 _Good lord, he's back. He’s fucking back._


	12. Friends and Foes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, Act 2 begins...
> 
> Malcom may not know it just yet, but just as a new chapter in his life is beginning, a plan of epic proportions is also beginning to unfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I do not profess to understand much about economics, so please forgive me for factual innacuracies XD)

“All questions are to be directed to Mr. Nicholson’s email, thank you,” Malcolm dimly heard Grace announce over the din of the media chatter, as he was led away to private rooms. He could make out press members trying to make their way towards him, but he really wasn't in a mood to deal with them right now. Besides, having gone off script a bit, he had to take time out to regroup and flesh out his story. Possibly with some facts. Always with some facts.   
  
_However, he could see her. Sam knew._  
  
“Grace,” he whispered, “Any chance I could see Sam Cassidy? She was in the front row with the government people.” Grace nodded and dashed off to find Sam. Malcolm smiled inwardly.  
  
He could feel an old power thrumming in his veins again. It felt like only yesterday that he was traipsing the corridors of 10, hurling profanities. He needed the release of a good bollocking, but there’ll be time for that later.   
  
He would ensure it.   
  
“Quite some speech that,” Kate remarked.   
  
“Aye. Didn’t you know, I sad wank to Schindler’s list, especially during scene with the red coat girl buried in a mound of charred human bodies. Weepy social justice - that’s my kink.”  
  
“Clearly.” Malcolm saw Kate’s face, which was contorted into a wicked smile, “I don’t think we’re getting rid of you that easily are we, Mr. Tucker?”  
  
“Nope. You know me. I rumble towards you like fucking Arthritis and arguably cause more pain and misery. I have been informed.” Malcolm grinned as Kate shook his hand.   
  
Alex also came in from the back, slamming his hand into it. “Quite the speech there, Malcolm. Honest and straightforward. Seems like prison really did you some good.” Malcolm whipped around to face Nicholson, his face ashen and his lips compressed in a horrid smile, “Oh you really think that, don't you? Why don't you pay those rapey turds a visit, maybe they might-“  
  
“MALCOLM TUCKER, YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS.”  
  
Malcolm clutched his shuddering heart and turned around to face a tear streaked Sam. “You colossal tit, _what do you think you were doing?”_  
  
_“_ Sam, honestly, there’s press outside - ”  
  
“Sound proof doors, Grace said. And maybe I don’t care…” Sam pushed the hair in front of her streaming eyes, “Maybe all I want to do is clobber you to death, because _God knows you fucking deserve it.”_  
  
“Goodness me Sam, it’s been what, six fucking months, and yer already treating me like that cock-bun from the Notebook? I am your former boss you know?” He said in mock annoyance.  
  
Sam however, always the more expressive one with her emotions, spread her arms for a hug. Malcolm sighed, “Come on Sam for fuck’s sake, I’m so thin my bones will impale you - ”  
  
But Sam was having none of it. She pulled Malcolm into a crushing hug.  
  
Malcolm would never admit it - hell he’d fucking blow Ollie before he ever did - but he was so glad that he could hug Sam back without having HR on his arse. As he allowed Sam to crush his shoulder blades some more, he almost collapsed with the sheer release of being touched in a friendly, protective way. He’d always treated Sam like a daughter, or even a niece. He had always felt a duty of care towards her, and that wasn't going to change now.  
  
“Okay, you should run along now, I don’t think your bathroom excuse will hold for another 5 minutes.”  
  
“Aw, come on Malcolm, I have questions. Yes I can finally use that tone,” Sam grinned at who was looking at her with a questioning eyebrow. “You are my ex boss.”  
“Which can wait,” he dropped his voice to a whisper to evade Alex and Kate’s ears. Grace eavesdropped, but that was fine, “I need you in 10 Downing, more than ever now. You are my ticket to blasting a more permanent career in this place…”  
  
“But…”  
  
“I am sure as hell never stepping foot in Whitehall. Ever fucking again. Not even to drop my pants to shit on the carpet… You hear me Sam? I’m done with that life, I’m done with those pathetic, mewling bedwetters. I need a detox.”  
  
“So you’ll stay here? At UNIT?” Sam said sarcastically.  
  
Grace bristled, “UNIT is an extremely crucial organisation…”  
  
“I owe it to a friend. I really do. Besides,” he looked deviously at Nicholson, “Who says I can’t fuck some poor buggers in 10, just because I’m minding super geniuses in nappies, eh? Come on Sam, you fucking know me.”  
  
Sam considered what Malcolm was saying. She had tried to deny herself, for those six months, that Malcolm would not be coming back to 10. She kept her job, hoping subconsciously, that by some miracle he would find a way out of prison, and here he was, standing before her, asking her to go back there…  
  
“Sam, please. I don’t want to come back… I know, I _know_ what you did _._ And you don’t know how appreciative I am of that, really, I don’t think you’ll ever know. But this is where I’m staying put, for now. But it’s not going to be easy, so don’t think I’m gonna get all soft, yeah? I’m still going to have to fucking dynamite a couple of thick as fuck fucks. Besides,” he looked around, “This place really needs someone to bite them in the arse. They’re like fucking sheep in here.” Grace was giving him an odd look. Malcolm raised en enigmatic eyebrow at her, as if to say, “Later, all will be known.”  
  
Sam nodded absently. She understood and respected his decision as a professional. But she still wanted to punch him in the face.  
  
“Sam? _Sam_? You’re more use to me there than you are here. You’re the bloodhound in 10, digging through all the skeletons we buried, eh? Show me how the enigmatic director of communications has burned my honest empire with his shite, English hands. _”_  
  
While Malcolm and the other government officials threw phrases with unearthing bones  around callously, between Malcolm and her, it had a totally different meaning. Any bone related structure meant information about certain people. Information that could literally get them politically killed. They could heavily code the phrase and speak to each other in the presence of other hostile elements.  
  
She caught his eyes scanning over to where Nicholson stood. She translated it in her head. It meant that Malcolm had something on Lord Alex Nicholson that he had noted in his _Book of the Dead,_ and he wanted it. He wasn't pretty sure, that’s why he'd called her a bloodhound - it meant that he would need her to help him find it, and find it fast.  
  
Sam had a professionalism that most found helpful and discrete, especially Malcolm. She was often the first to try and defend the government and it’s employees, whether it was against the press or even family. Under normal circumstances, she would have stood up against Malcolm and told him that she wouldn't go against party members.   
  
But even she had heard the whispers in 10 Downing. Of a secret meeting that the PM had with some top officials that wasn't necessarily about the fate of this country, but a bit more about bank balances and cocktail parties. Truth be told, Downing had a heart made of sewer, and in Sam’s eyes, Malcolm was the only one with the power to clean it. Good for him then, that he was in a slightly more favourable position to do so.  
  
She nodded and tapped him on the shoulder. “It was good seeing you again Malcolm. Keep in touch, yeah?”  
  
Malcolm grinned, “And you, Sam Cassidy. Give Ollie hell… that’s my girl.”  
  
Sam walked away from the pair, a new spring in her step. She smoothly rejoined Ollie 10 minutes later, as they tried to avoid the press that was threatening to engulf them with questions.   
  
Ollie glared at the media that was pounding him with questions, “What do you have to say about the epidemic of sexual assault in prisons?”  
“Is Mr. Tucker telling the truth?”  
“Was this really a power play between the two of you?”  
  
As Sam pushed back and led Mrs. Leevensham through the crowds, Ollie gritted his teeth and power walked his way through it, not deigning any of the questions with an answer.  
  
Not only had they lost a spectacular chance to get UNIT funding cut, they’d also got a new threat in the form of Malcolm Tucker. And that was not good for Ollie and his job, because of course Malcolm was going to come in, and try and usurp him. He was the pretender. And Malcolm the fucking King of Roses.  
  
As they rode back in silence, Ollie whispered to Sam. “Did you see him? Malcolm?”  
  
Sam looked back at him innocently, “I tried sneaking back, but there was too much security.” She said, mingling the truth with the lie. Of course Ollie would find it strange if she didn't attempt to contact Malcolm… almost everyone knew that Malcolm had a soft spot for her.   
  
“So what do you think he’s gonna do? Stage a coup and write a constitution?”  
  
“I genuinely don’t know. But he looked tired.” That was also true. Malcolm had the same old energy lurking behind his eyes, but his face was droopy and if truth be told, he really looked like all he wanted was a bedroom to sleep and a kitchen to cook and destress. “I don’t think he would want to come back to Downing, after all this…” Sam cautiously said. She knew that if she put Ollie on guard, he would be keeping tighter security around Malcolm’s Cabinet of Shadows - it had secrets that could pretty much eviscerate anybody and the last thing he needed was to have some horrible secret of his unearthed there. But Sam needed that cabinet. Malcolm needed it.  
  
“Then why did he have to go and fucking attack the whole government thing about?” Ollie groaned.  
  
“Oh you know, theatrics. He loved theatre in Uni,” she said thoughtfully. Ollie looked at her like she’d grown a second head, “You’re both complete nutters, you know that right?”  
Sam flashed Ollie a rare, coy smile, “Bad influence, I guess.”  
Ollie muttered and turned around to look out of the window, while Mrs. Leevensham continued to complain about something or the other.  
   
Sam took out her phone and saw a missed call from Jamie. Malcolm’s only other ally.   
  
“ _If Malcolm was planning a coup from miles away,”_ Sam typed a message to Jamie, _“he’s gonna need all the help he can get,”_  
  
And she knew what she had to do.   
  
Back at UNIT, Grace looked at Malcolm, “What was that all about.”  
  
Malcolm stretched his back and checked the time. Two o clock. Good. He had three hours to catch up on thirty years worth of info.  
  
“Just exhuming old corpses. I’ll fill you in.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Grace, go fetch your black coffee now. We have work to do.”

 

***

  
  
“Right, so Jac is Chief Medical Officer, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. We used to source them from the army, but Jac had encountered alien physiology before. Some shady pharma company was using aliens for manufacturing drugs for diseases.”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, so you hired them?”  
“No, not all. Just Jac.”  
  
They were sitting in Nicholson’s office. Grace had a huge pile of files stacked all around her and Malcolm had joined her on the floor, with a pen in one hand and a biscuit in the other. He absently played with the pen as he took in the huge chart in front of him. Malcolm rubbed his eye, pushing the tiredness away.   
  
For his own sake he managed to compile a list, with Grace’s assistance, the names of all the heads of departments. He could then easily chart out the hierarchy of power in the public relations department. There was no point trying to chip at any of the big shots in the management - especially those in the military side of things. He wanted minor scuffles not a bullet in his brain.  
  
However, with his eyes scanning higher up the administration, a familiar green demon woke up inside his chest and roared for attention. Two hours ago, he was pretty much a nobody. And this was two hours hence and he had proved himself. But that wouldn't be enough; _Your dealing with the break out mess doesn't grant you immunity_ \- the demon said - _Kate is a smart woman_. He would have to make himself trustworthy, and that would need him to get his hands dirty. And oh, how he fucking loved that.  
  
_If you don’t clear the path to Director in the next few days, your window of opportunity will be over. Then it’s back to being fucking dragons on CBeebies and a pundit on hack-tv._ The voice warned.  
  
And Malcolm had not fucking intention to live like that. He was going to be the pharaoh again. He would rise from the ashes like fucking Horus and peck the shit out of whichever cunt tried to rip his wings off, he would make sure of that.  
  
“Grace, be a good girl and pull out the report file on the Vespiform incident.” Grace shuffled  through stacks of paper and handed him a manila folder. It was marked with a big red sign saying, ‘Security Clearance: Red”  
  
“Who would be able to see this?”  
  
“It means it’s only meant for those with the highest clearance - that is Director Stewart and her aides, the Osgood twins. You only have it because it directly pertains you, but you are obligated not to share the contents of this with anyone.”  
  
Malcolm pushed the sheet he had compiled with the names of all media management employees towards her, and handed her a pen. ‘Mark for me, please, all those who have or can read this file.”  
  
Grace scanned the chart with her pen in hand.  
  
“Well, Director Stewart, Osgood twins, and Mr. Nicholson. He read it today while compiling your script.”  
  
Malcolm looked at Nicholson’s name, thoughtfully. None of the names in the chart sent alarm bells ringing in his head - only his did.  
  
“Nicholson’s a bad egg. The only one in this lot, which is exceptionally clean for an agency this size.” he remarked.   
  
“A bad egg? How do you know? Mr. Tucker, am I helping you overthrow my boss?”  
“No, not overthrow. You’re assisting me, to assist him, into committing a public self immolation.” he said nonchalantly, scanning his phone for messages.  
  
Grace stood up, angrily, “And why should I help you do that? What do you think I’m some…”  
  
“I don’t presume. At least I try not to. You are a wonderful person, Grace. Too wonderful to be bogged down by someone like Alex Nicholson. And you are loyal to your organisation, I get that. I really do. So, I am trying to help you take out the bad roots.”  
  
“So what, you can take over? And carry out your revenge against Reeder?”  
  
“I have no intention of running this organisation. Kate is capable of that. As for my revenge -“ he looked around the office, “My revenge and the rooting out of your, ah, problem is very much the same thing. And you want me to set up mines to blow up in the government’s fucking face don’t you? We want a repeat of Hacksaw fucking Ridge here, people. Twat the Japanese from all sides. That’s why I’m here isn't it? I am your surround twatting machine.”  
  
Grace continued to glare at Malcolm. “Mr. Nicholson might seem incompetent in your eyes, but he’s been here a long time. He’s give his all to the organisation…”  
  
“In the beginning, I’m sure. But you see, power and Lordship gives these hypocritical wankers a bigger head than their neck or paycheque can physically support. So they start looking for other sources to support it. Now question is, how do I execute Marie fucking Antoinette?” He looked at Grace, a mysterious expression on his face. “Don’t you want to know?”  
  
Whether it was the fact that Grace was so utterly shocked at what she was being dragged into, or whether it was just morbid curiosity, but she found herself nodding.  
“Good. You see, there’s this book I have, back in my office at 10 Downing. I fondly call it the Book of the Dead. Why, I hear you ask? Well that’s because it’s got the name of every single stupid fucking cunt in this country, who has some consequence to my quest in ridding the world of their evil, along with a little note next to that name; and this note has pretty solid fucking reasons as to how and why I should fuck them. Think of it as a book in a mortuary. Nice juicy autopsies, just waiting to happen.”  
  
“You specifically researched on Nicholson?”  
  
“His brother, Julius. You should meet him, really - boring fucking cunt that he is. Actually scratch that, once you've met one you’ve pretty much figured out the other.”  
Grace sighed. She really did care about UNIT! Her sister-in-law and her husband worked there in an advisory capacity, and it was thanks to them that she had gotten this job. And she had seen the wonderful things that UNIT had done… maybe if Malcolm would help her make UNIT better, wouldn't it be worth it?  
  
“I will only help you if you give me one solid reason why Mr. Nicholson is bad for this organisation.”  
  
“Because it is my belief that Mr. Nicholson has a vested interest in UNIT shutting down it’s UK branch. Once and for all. Gone like the fucking alimony you’re paying to your shite ex.”  
  
“So that's what we are then? The shite ex?”  
  
“In a way, yes.”  
  
“Proof?”  
  
“None yet. But the leaking of the documents and his frankly diabetes inducing exchanges with Ollie are indicative of that.”  
  
“I’m sorry Mr. Tucker, but that’s really not enough.”  
  
“Look,” he straightened, annoyance becoming clear on his tired features, “I have a fucking sixth sense for political fucking shitastrophies that _don’t_ involve me, right? I need to figure out what to do, give me a minute.”  
  
Grace stared at Malcolm who leaned back against the wooden table and shut his eyes, as if in prayer. In his head, Malcolm was running down a to-do list of what information he should collect before instructing Sam on what to do.   
  
_He should go and see Jamie, and hear how far the PM had gone into wanting UNIT to be booted off the list for investments. That he could do tomorrow._  
  
_Case files - he should go through what sort of fuck-all job Nicholson had been doing and try and judge a time frame as to when Humpty Dumpty started bribing all the king’s men for fucking Diamond martinis or tooth whiteners or whatever._  
  
_Make Sam dig through the Book and send me scans of whatever I had on the Nicholson bros._  
  
He snapped out of his meditative state and looked at Grace, “Get me all the major incidents UNIT has had to deal with the public fall out from. Mark the ones,” he handed her the red pen again, “Mark the ones where Nicholson fucked up the press releases. Be honest. I want it yesterday.”  
  
“I can't say no, can I?” Grace sighed.  
  
“You could say, “No, I’ll get it done day before.” Now hurry up.”  
  
As Grace shuffled out of the office to gather her records, Malcolm whipped out his phone and began typing to Sam.  
  
“Bones of Alex and Julius Homunculson. Black and White.”  
  
He send it off with a ping. Within fifteen minutes a tiny thumbs up graced his screen. He immediately shot off a text to Jamie.  
  
“Not dead. Wanna go on a murder spree? I reaaallly want to rip out Ollie’s prostate. Love Malc”  
  
Within seconds, his phone pinged. Malcolm read.  
  
“Aye, get those fucking death rays those nutters keep in lockup yeah? Saves time. What was that sad pathetic speech today?”  
  
“Blow me.”  
  
“I might.”  
  
“See ya. x Malc”  
  
“Missed you. x JM”  
  
Malcolm grinned. It would be nice seeing Jamie. His smile turned into a frown when Grace plonked two whole boxes in front of him. She straightened and nursed her back.  
  
“I think I pulled a muscle.”  
  
“Yeah well my brain feels like it’s going through a blender. Come on… come on, come on! This is what working feels like!” Malcolm cried at Grace who had collapsed on a chair.  
  
“I haven't worked this hard since uni!”  
“Oh and who said it was going to get easier? Your cuck professors with their PhD’s and grants and shit? Those bastards, whose literal biggest worry is that some 20 year old wanker pissed on their sedan? _This,”_ he pointed at the mess around them, “This is what politics looks like. This is what it really is. Walking about the bound corpses of fucking rainforests with a fucking machete, hacking through information and data and bullshit. It’s a fucking game where the shinier your shit, the higher up you climb.”  
  
Grace sleepily descended to the floor and began to pull out the more recent reports, “If I remember correctly, the reports of the past 10 years were rather sub standard compared to some of the older reports I read. For comparison, I brought the ones that were written during the Brigadier’s time.”  
  
“The Brigadier?”  
  
“Brigadier Gordon Lethbridge - Stewart. He’s Kate’s father. Knew the Doctor apparently.”  
  
“Yeah well I wouldn't be surprised if there’s one of the Doctor’s heads hanging on their wall like a fucking deity. Does everyone around here worship him?”  
  
“Don’t you?”  
  
“Nah, I respect him. Doesn’t mean I can’t look through his sentimental, yogi drivel.” He remembered the young woman who had climbed into the TARDIS with him.   
  
“Well in any case, I think you should read through the control report first. It was pretty well written. You can read the next ten years after that. I’ll mark the 10 years before that.”  
  
“Good idea. Hey,” He looked at Grace with a solemn and genuine expression in his eyes, ‘Thank you.”  
  
“You better help me clean this place up, Tucker.”

“You bet I will, Ms Jones. You bet I will.”

 

***

It was the wee hours of the morning, nearly 6 o clock, when Malcolm closed the final report. “Well that's the last one. Jeez, reading this made me feel like a reverse Benjamin button in terms of writing style, y’know? Like his writing’s getting better, and better, but the reports are literally from like the Dark Ages.”  
  
Grace yawned and heard her back crack, “Yeah I guess.”  
  
Malcolm pulled out his phone and began to go through the other messages he had elected to ignore all of yesterday, muttering, “Oh he’s gonna _kill me…”_  
  
“Who?” Grace asked, suddenly panicking.  
  
“My brother. Wee Michael. I think you should probably go get some sleep, yeah? Kip on the couch for a bit, it helps.”  
“Nah I live close by. I’ll call in late. Have a bath and breakfast to feel human again.”  
Malcolm raised an eyebrow as Grace picked up the remaining files and began to take them to the filing room.  
  
_Is everybody here descended from some fucking royalty? Posh cunts the lot of them._  
“Ah well,” he thought, cleaning Nicholson’s table and the ground around it, “Not so different from Whitehall then.”  
  
He mentally ticked off all the relevant facts and reports he had read the whole night. The names went around his head like a Mantra, “ _Slitheen’s in Downing, April 2006; Canary Wharf, July 2007; Harold Saxon, 2007; Adipose Industries Debacle, 2008; Atmos Incident 2008, The Planets in the Sky, 2008…”_ The funniest thing was, every one of these events in some way or the other, tied back to the Doctor. In some way he had either caused or stopped them.   
  
So this is who he is? Earth’s alien guardian angel? The carer of this planet… A literal fucking _God?_ Malcolm shuddered. What would a god want with him other than plonking him straight into hell?  
  
He shook his head and decided to concentrate on more Earthly matters. All he had to do now was wait for Sam to send him all his notes and cross check the dates to see if something turned up. He felt like an ancient form of Google. If Google was actively planning a political assault on the government and a UN body whilst suffering the brain-numbing effects of a sugar crash.  
  
Grace came back within ten minutes and nearly blanched in shock. The room was as clean as it had been before Malcolm had decided to turn it into a War Room.   
  
“How - ”  
  
“Practice makes fucking perfect, remember that.” Malcolm dusted the last of the papers from under the sofa, neatly compiling them inside thin blue. He piled all the files in his arms and grabbed his jacket. “I need you to get me a car. Those official black ones, a sedan, an SUV, the fucking Batmobile… I don’t care. I just need something to get to Whitehall in about two hours. And call ahead. Tell them Persephone’s coming back to finish her annual, obligatory shagging duties.”  
  
“Who are you shagging?”  
  
“Jamie McDonald.”  
  
Grace was too tired to object, and simply rang up Whitehall with the news. The lady practically yelped and expressed her shock.   
  
“This is very irregular, and we don't have any… oh.” The lady immediately smoothened and granted Malcolm the appointment. He had been booked in for Eight o clock.  
  
Grace thanked her and then booked a car for Malcolm for seven thirty. While half of her mind ran through the logistics of booking a car, the other began to wander. Was this really how it felt working under Malcolm Tucker? Everyday would be a new battle, everyday the office would be turned into an Apocalyptic Bunker, and every morning the office would be cleaner than a baby’s bottom to receive the soldiers from war.  
  
She had never been this busy in a long time. The annoyance would come. But for now, she was thoroughly enjoying every second of it _._

***

 

  
Malcolm sat in the car, lightly dozing, and a newspaper lay by his side with one huge title covering the front page:  
  
“ANSWER FOR ANDY!”  
  
As the car drove up in front of 10 Downing, Malcolm jerked awake at the sounds of voices calling out to him outside the car.  
  
“Mr Tucker! Are you coming back to take your job?”  
  
“Malcolm, are you going to stage a coup against the prime minister?”  
  
“Will you be going to the UN?”  
  
“Jesus fucking Christ, UNIT is leakier than the fucking Titanic,” Malcolm groaned, as he plastered a smile on his face and power walked to the door, covering his face using the morning’s paper.  
  
The voices of the press died down, as Malcolm walked inside the building. He underestimated how much he had missed it, and how fucking weak that sight made his iron clad resolve.  
  
The old corridors seemed to be beckoning him seductively - back to his old job, his old life. It would take time to usurp Ollie and make his way back into the Party’s good graces, but it wasn't impossible considering the amazing story he had managed to cook up last night…  
  
_No. No. Remember what this place did to you. Remember where it put you. Dealing with an organisation half it’s size and with quarter of the political shitestorm is what your heart needs._  
  
Malcolm wasn't really sure about what his heart needed, but for the time being, he occupied himself with his ‘reception.’  
  
“Welcome back Mr Tucker. We have a special briefing session prepared for with Mr…”  
  
“Yeah, yeah off with that, I practically lived here. I can find my way. You go do whatever it is you should be doing.”  
  
“B-But this is what I am supposed to be doing.”  
  
“Then go help some idiot cunt trying to do his job. Don’t bore me, son.” Malcolm didn't have the stamina to waste on this boy. He wanted to see Jamie and hear what he had to say so could put his plan in action.  
  
“But Mr. Reeder said to ask you to come by…”   
  
Malcolm glared at him “I never said I won’t see his sad pathetic face, I just don’t want to see it now. Now fuck off.”  
  
The man didn't bother arguing and fucked off. Smart.  
  
He decided to stay as far away as he could from Ollie’s office, or at least visit him after somebody else. He knew that there wasn't much Ollie could do in ways of hurting him now, but a nice open window and loud excited chatter could prove to work against Malcolm; especially, if Ollie chose to make it seem like Malcolm was here to take his job. And if he visited Ollie first, in the minds of the media that would be a clear indication of his agenda for coming to 10. He wanted to make this look like a peace making mission, if that was at all possible with his reputation.   
In retrospect, Malcolm should have told the reporters outside that he didn't want to darken the front door of the British Government unless he absolutely had to. He couldn't be seen with Sam either - wouldn’t help if there were other rumours about him covering up the ones that Malcolm wanted to hear. And he didn't want to drag Sam into anything. He had made that abundantly clear many times before.  
He cursed his tiredness. He had spent too long without an all nighter. He needed his stamina back.   
  
“So yer back? Yer really back? Ya mad fucking cunt, what is this, a prison reboot of ‘There will be blood’ with still no fuckin' blood?”  
  
“Aye. Hollywood star, ripped and all, you know me. Got out of prison in a high speed car and sold heroin in South London. I’ve even got a tattoo now.” Malcolm walked towards the young Scotsman who ambled his way upto him.  
  
“What does it say?”  
  
“Fuck bitches, get riches.”  
  
“Don’t be disgusting Malc. Got any for me?”  
“Yer off yer tits as it is.”  
  
“Aye that’s true.”  
  
Malcolm felt a warm feeling erupt inside his stomach. It was like snorkelling in a pool of skinny latte.  
  
“Good to see ya, Jamie.”  
  
Jamie barked a laugh. He looked positively vicious when he was happy, and as he pulled Malcolm down by the lapels and threw his arms around Malcolm’s neck, Malcolm was honestly afraid he was going to choke him.  
  
“Easy now, I forgot your leash in my other coat.”  
  
The government officials witnessing this scene had absurdly comical expressions of confusion and fear etched on their face. They stared at an otherwise heartfelt reunion with the same caution of a biologist testing a deadly virus. Without a hazmat suit.  
  
Jamie broke the hug and glared at them. They all fucked off back to their duties.  
  
Jamie being the shorter of the two, kept a firm hand on Malcolm’s back, leading him to his office. Malcolm whistled appreciatively.  
  
“Small, but at least there’s more light in here than your older office. What did you do with that, by the way? Sell it to Count Dracula?”  
  
“Turned it into a sex dungeon. With torture devices and all that - for the occasional wanker or intern, y’know?”  
  
“Aye, I do.” He indicated Malcolm onto a chintz chair and seated himself opposite Malcolm,  a rabid smile still plastered on his face.  
  
“Take that stupid smile off your face I wasn't being sent to put down for fuck’s sake.” Malcolm groaned.  
  
“Felt like that though. Seriously Malc, five years and who knows what would have come out cause that sure as hell wouldn't have been the Malcolm Tucker of yesterday.”  
  
“Enjoyed it then?”  
  
“Is it true though?” Jamie was never one to show emotions, but there was real concern in there now. “Some bastard in prison moved on you?”  
“Yeah. But that’s not why I’m here,” Malcolm raised a hadn't to silence Jamie’s protestations of going into prison and personally dealing with the cunt, “He’s in prison and considering the media uproar I’m sure they’ll deal with it. I’m dealing with it.”  
  
“Then why the fuck are you here?”  
  
“Just came by to say hi.”  
“Fuck, are you really in love with me?”  
  
“You’re my Mata Hari here, didn’t you know that?”  
  
Jamie leant back in his chair and considered Malcolm, “You sly bastard, what are you planning? Sam sent me this fuck all message yesterday, seriously Malcolm ask your kids to stop bothering daddy with cryptic shit.”  
  
“Well then daddy better have something good for mummy. Cause mommy’s been hearing that daddy’s been hearing some wild little gossip…”  
  
“Well it’s nothing that’ll help you with Nicholson…” Jamie had started to say, and then he stopped and thought for a moment. Malcolm was leaning towards Jamie, his eyes widening in anticipation.  
  
“Well there is something I managed to find about that egg cunt now that you mention it.”  
  
“I’m all ears.”  
  
“And hair apparently. Seriously, do they not have a barber at E.T.’s strip club?”   
  
“Shut up Jamie, focus.”  
  
“Word’s on the street that our holy dove of a PM just shat on a war veterans funding. The money was redirected to a former subsidiary of Blue Skies.”  
  
“That’s where Julius worked, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. His brother is linked to it in some way. Still digging on that though.”  
  
“Don’t bother - it’s the Canary Wharf building Julius was trying to sell off. Alex had more luck with it though, sold it to this subsidiary. Fucking families.” Malcolm grimaced.  
  
“Yeah, this is too fucking domestic for your taste, Malcolm. Leave it…”  
  
“No, continue. I want to nail the shit on a prize wall behind the fucking UNIT reception desk for the world to see.”  
  
“Words on the street, that the PM and some of his closest advisors are working on boosting investments in this company. I haven't been able to find the name. Yet. They’re planning on slashing key projects and fundings to certain social endeavours. If you know what I mean.” Jamie leant back in his chair, grinning sarcastically.  
“As in?”  
  
“There's going to be massive fucking scandal, and there’s a chance that you might be able to harpoon it. It’ll have Julius and his mates bleeding out like fucking postpartum uteruses.”  
  
“Do you even know what happens in a postpartum uterus?”  
  
“I watch Casualty.”  
  
Malcolm was about to argue that Casualty had nothing about it, when he internally slapped himself. _Concentrate._  
  
“And what does this company do? You don’t have much of a story there till ya know what they're doing…”  
“Well it isn't a sexual scandal… because there isn't anything else that I’ve been able to unearth in terms of picture evidence. It seems like it’s something more financial.”  
  
“You’re keeping something from me, Jamie I can fucking sense it.”  
  
“Wha’! No I’m not…”  
  
“Stop tugging your hair then.”  
  
Jamie shifted about uncomfortably and removed his hand from his hair. “You fucking bastard…”  
  
“Hurry up, I have a fucking murder to commit here!”  
  
“It’s really stupid… honestly it’s more unbelievable than that scanner shite you pulled through your arse yesterday.”  
  
“I wasn't lying. _Go on.”_  
  
Jamie sighed, “Well apparently, they offer post death services. Like that movie where dead people float around, offering shitty advice. They upload your brain and keep you alive after death. It’s some fucking ET shit.”  
  
Malcolm considered what Jamie had said… after seeing the kind of technology an alien like the Doctor possessed, he wouldn't doubt that someone could pull of something like this.   
  
“You aren't really considering this, are you?”  
  
“No, I was thinking of the best way to smuggle you to a mental fucking hospital.” Malcolm lied.  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Good. So do you know where this company is located?”  
  
“Jesus, Malcolm I heard whispers from people, not the fucking Palace Footmen screaming about it into passing traffic. No I don’t know. It’s based in London though.”  
  
Malcolm typed something into his phone, and got up, stretching, “Well back to the drawing board for me then…”  
  
“Really?” Jamie’s eyes looked like they were going to pop of his head. “It’s true then… you’re not coming back?”  
  
“Aye. I’ve had enough Jamie…”  
“No ya fucking haven’t? I can fucking sense it on you… the sight of that shite, uncleaned corridor to your office was enough to give you a hard - on, I know it!”  
  
Malcolm got up from his chair, tired and feeling his sugar rush crashing… again. He would have to take a cat nap at this rate. Jamie was saying something and cursing him violently, but Malcolm wasn't in a mood.  
  
“Come on Jamie, walk me to the door.” He raised his arms, beckoning the younger Scot to follow.  
  
Jamie glared at Malcolm. “You really are fucking tired? You? The fucking robot fucking terminator of 10? The lifeless workaholic, _you are tired…?”_  
  
Jamie collapsed back into his chair, staring at the spot where Malcolm was as second ago, as if processing this new information. Sam had done it too, in her head. Malcolm recognised the expression.   
  
“Jamie, I don’t have time for yer fucking theatrics. This isn't some fucking World war 1 drama where you’re the weepy widow of a dead soldier. Come on, ya dramatic cunt.”  
  
Jamie shuffled towards Malcolm, allowing him to put an arm around him and thrust his phone under his nose. There was a sentence there. “Sam has something for me. We’ve got to go get it.”   
  
Jamie locked eyes with Malcolm.  
  
“I may be tired of wanker Ministers, son, but don’t fucking even _think_ for one sorry, wasted second, that I am done with politics just yet. I am going to make a huge fucking bomb and explode it in Nicholson’s face so hard, the splatter from that alone would stretch from Tower of London to the fucking palace.”  
  
Jamie looked disappointed, but out of respect for Malcolm, nodded and grinned. “Then let me help ya.”  
  
Malcolm walked close behind Jamie, and observed him weave his way through the crowd, occasionally shouting at people. He felt like a proud old dad.   
  
“That’s right. Make it look normal. Nothing to see here… nothing at all.”   
  
Malcolm didn't know which God, or indeed demon he had shagged in his political career to give birth to these two. Jamie and Sam. Or may be they were like those clones that had sucked a part of his personality out. Sam was like his Superego - the facade of charm and professionalism he wore to work everyday. And Jamie was his id running wild - with no filter, no restraint.   
  
His children.  
  
His monstrous and wonderful children.

 

  
***

 

Early that morning Sam received a text, informing her that Malcolm was coming to 10. Ollie had frantically texted her minutes later asking her to organise someone to meet him at the door and bring him to Ollie.  
  
“Good. Scaring Ollie shitless was one way to start the perfect morning” she smiled inwardly as she sipped her tea, rifling through the morning paper. Last night, she had removed the keys of the Cabinet of Doom from Ollie’s desk, under the pretext of helping him clean up after the media debacle, much to Sam’s disappointment. She would have to wait to access the Cabinet. Ollie was so busy, he had practically camped out the whole night at Downing, threatening and coaxing.   
  
Sam felt sick watching him work. He was not unpleasant in an overt way - that was the worst bit. He was charming and nice and gullible on first glance, but beneath he was a simmering pit of all the horrors of mankind. At least Malcolm never pretended to be nice.  
  
As she walked early into work, she dropped a word at the front desk to send someone to Malcolm when he comes. She then brisk walked to Ollie’s office and discreetly glancing around, she stepped in.   
  
Ollie was snoring gently on the couch, his mobile in one hand and the other over his face. It blocked the sunlight from waking him. Good, good.  
  
She grabbed the coat he had laid out for himself and walked to the Cabinet, careful not to make a noise. In case he woke up, she could pass off her presence in his office as simply just checking in on him and hanging his coat on the cabinet.  
  
She dextrously held the coat in one hand and manoeuvred the lock with the other. As the cabinet swung open, Ollie snorted. Sam bit her lip, and began to run her hand through he files.   
  
“ _N…. N…. N… N… Nate, Newman, N… Nicholson!”_ She pulled out the file and biting it between her teeth, slowly locked the Cabinet.   
  
“Sam what are you doin’?”  
  
Sam almost screamed in horror when Ollie’s voice rang behind her. She turned to face him, the file clenched between her teeth.  
  
“ _Stay calm, stay calm…”_  
  
She smoothly held the file in her hands and hung the coat on the Cabinet, as if nothing had happened. “I was looking up something on Tom Newman… the BBC guy? You said if the Cabinet had anything in it, so I decided to check. You were here till four last night, and I felt bad after yesterday… so well here I am! I’ll read it for you and let you know if something comes up. Meanwhile, your coffee is getting cold and Karen from _Daily Mail_ wanted a word.” She ranted off in a breath, coyly looking at her shoes. PAs usually didn't interfere with their bosses’ work, but Malcolm usually had her sit with him and collect intel.   
  
“Why?”  
  
“I used to help Malcolm collect data sometimes. Thought it might help.”  
“Cheers Sam,” Ollie rubbed his eyes sleepily. “You’re an angel.”  
  
“I know.” Sam hid her growing worry and hurried off to her desk.  
  
An hour or two later, Sam had pretty much scanned the whole file and was sitting on her desk, desperately trying to find something on Tom Newman.   
  
Soon, a rather freaked looking man came and informed her that Malcolm had politely declined Ollie’s offer to see him. Sam frowned. How was he supposed to collect his info then? And she did need his help getting something on Tom Newman - and she didn't dare risk going to the Cabinet again, with Ollie’s mood progressively worsening.  
  
Her deliverance appeared in the form of Jamie and Malcolm. Malcolm approached her and hugged her, his eyes constantly trained on the not so subtle glances they were getting.  
  
“How are ye, Sam?”  
  
“Yeah, Malcolm I need your help.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I need shit on Tom Newman. From the File. Now.”  
  
“Google: Tiki Bikini Hut, red faced BBC wanker.”  
  
Sam glared at Malcolm, who winked, and headed to Ollie’s office, closing the door shut behind him. But not before signalling Jamie to help Sam. She realised Malcolm was buying her time. Just in case she needed to weave a story to keep Jamie busy and pass of Malcolm’s appearance as purely innocent. _God bless him_ , she said inwardly.  
  
Jamie raised his eyebrows at her. Sam nonchalantly handed him the scanned copies. “For dad?” Jamie asked.   
  
“Yeah. Tom Newman. _Now!”_  
  
Jamie patiently waited and heard her out. He had practically lived in Malcolm’s office whenever he wasn't bollocking someone or the other, and it was Sam’s pleasure to keep this secret from his superiors, at that time. And that was how she earned favours from the crossest man in Scotland.  
  
“That wanker? A couple phone hacking and story meddling scandals here and there, a trip to a bikini beach with a woman who was not his wife. The usual. He’s a boring fuck.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Obviously, why?”  
  
Sam explained what she had done. Jamie hid a smile.  
  
“I’ll cover for you. Only this once though. Malcolm shouldn't dare ask me anything from today on, or I’ll fucking shove my dick down that miserable cunt’s throat so hard, I’ll fucking rupture his sound box. Fucking cunt. Showing up like this…” Jamie grumbled.  
  
Sam grinned, “Yeah I think he just needs a little boost. But I’m sure he’s so happy after seeing you.”  
  
“Yeah, he was positively jerking himself off in my chair. I’ll need a fucking cleaner. Oh, your boss arrives. Good luck.”  
  
Jamie looked at the people who were looking at him suspiciously. He was surrounded by sharks everywhere, and he knew why the press were hounding 10 and Ollie. They wanted to know if Malcolm still had allies on this inside, to stage a coup.  
  
Time for a show then.  
  
“SO NEWMAN, DRUNK OFF HIS TITS, DECIDED TO DROP HIS PANTS AND RIM A COCONUT.” He laughed slapping Sam’s desk.  
  
Ollie and Malcolm stepped outside the office. Not once was there a heated discussion or raised voices, Sam noticed. but the mood was palpably cold, despite the forced outward hilarity.  
  
“Tell Ollie.”  
  
Ollie stared angrily at Jamie. “Tell me what? Don't you have some place to be Jamie?”  
  
Jamie flashed a thumbs up to both of them, and Sam led Ollie back into his office, with a page full of a few phrases and articles she had scribbled out.  
  
As Ollie turned to enter his office, Jamie flipped him off. Malcolm guffawed and followed Jamie to the door. Everybody went back to what they were doing; in their eyes, Jamie was still clutching the report Sam and handed to him. A normal day.  
  
A few minutes later, Malcolm was clutching his shoulder and the scan of the Nicholson file, along with his phone. As he waited for his ride, he felt Jamie’s big eyes glaring at him as he repeated his threat to rip Malcolm’s sound box out if he ever asked for a favour again, and then proceeding to slap him on the shoulder with excessive force.  
  
He almost felt normal again. 

 

 


	13. Spring Cleaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing something... well... risqué.
> 
> Try not to cringe :)
> 
> Feedback is always welcome!

By the time Malcolm was back at the small table that was office, UNIT HQ had opened shop in full swing. He was admiring the view, when a sharp tap greeted his shoulder.   
“What is it? Oh Kate, good morning…”  
  
“I found out about your little excursion. What do you think you were doing at 10 Downing this morning?” Kate was positively fuming, “And practically hijacking Lord Nicholson’s PA…”  
  
“I asked, she said yes. It’s called consent. You don't need to worry about HR problems landing on your head, if thats what you're worried about…”  
  
“Somehow my patience for your elaborate, layered metaphors have decreased exponentially in the last minute, Mr Tucker.”  
  
“Oh that’s a shame, most people take two minutes… listen alright! There’s no press drama acting about your head and thats the most important thing yeah?”  
  
“Malcolm, do you intend on working for us?”  
Malcolm looked at Kate incredulously, “Of course I do… of course I fucking do! I _owe_ you, and I am trying to repay that by restoring my old intel and contacts back at 10. They’re good friends of mine and they'll help me no matter what.”  
  
“And exactly how is that?”  
  
Malcolm drew conspiratorially close to Kate, “The thing I told you about… about helping you beat out the bad guys? I’m doing it now. Saved you the trouble of having to listen to me rave on about it. I went to put my ear to the ground, y’know, so I could foretell the Cunt Express roll onto platform Bollocks and three-quarters.”  
  
Kate raised an eyebrow, “And how do you plan to do that? With your usual MO of half truths and threats?”  
  
“Darling, there has never been a fucking _comma_ in my intel that wasn’t a fucking fact. That’s all I'm made of - facts, statistics and internalised anger. When I strike down on Alex Nicholson…”  
  
“So you’re waste my resources and time on a smear campaign?”  
  
“That will help save future resources and time, yeah. And if you want I can help shovel up some of the coal around too. Do the menial tasks.”  
  
“The menial tasks are what keep this organisation…”  
  
“Save the dramatic shit, Jesus you really must have a Doctor shrine at home. I will give you some excellent evidence to believe that Lord Nicholson wants nothing but the destruction of your organisation.”  
  
“If you are lying to me, and if I find nothing substantial in your report,” Kate’s eyes were glittering menacingly as she drew upto Malcolm’s height, “I will throw you back to where you came from… fair deal?”  
  
“Absolutely boss.” Malcolm gave her his winning smiles and then turned around to walk to his office. Any mortal who would appear before his gaze then would have been incinerated by the pure waves of hatred that flowed out of his eyes. While he hated being treated like this, it was still better than having nothing to do. He would die again… rise again so that Kate Stewart would not be able to threaten the safety of his position again… rise again so that people who were currently jostling him about would scuttle at the mere sounds of his footsteps… he would fashion his empire from the dust.  
  
_There would be time for it, but he had to be careful. Rushing this operation and cornering Grace every second of the day, would make Alex more careful. He needed Alex to be as careful as a drunk, horny teenager with shitty friends, a smartphone and a fruit._  
  
His table had been placed in Nicholson’s room, and Malcolm could feel an urge to laugh at the sight of his prey.   
  
_So this was how those cheetahs in those documentaries felt when they could see their prey through the tall, yellow grass,_ Malcolm’s brain mused, _staring at their bald headed antelope chow through the day’s drivel, not knowing what fucktastrophe is about to break his life in two._  
  
_Must be relaxing being a boneheaded lord._  
  
He kept low for the next few days, gathering information from Jamie about the rumour he had heard about the PM’s apparent bid for immortality, at a very mortal cost. At UNIT, he regaled himself by dealing with a whole bunch of specialist equipment and weaponry passing from under his nose, as he helped compile simply summary reports for Minister’s and owners of the district who’s factories were producing it. For PR purposes.  
  
Malcolm kept telling himself that he would stay awake and thrash this entire problem out in a go… but thanks to insufficient sleep and the insomnia generated by the deep seated trauma he was ignoring, the file Sam had acquired for him lay unattended for a whole three weeks. He wasn’t eating well, he’d almost dozed off during a meeting, and one night he jolted awake from a recurring nightmare, screaming.  
  
Michael came running into his room, his eyes wild and holding a bat in the other.  
  
“You okay, Malc?” he whispered hoarsely.  
  
“It. was. him. Again.” Malcolm murmured through gritted teeth. “That _bastard.”_  
  
“Come on Malcolm this has gone on for too fucking long. Please, just let us take to you to a doctor, yeah?”  
  
“No. NO DIN’T YA FUCKING HEAR ME? NO!” He shouted as Michael made it for the phone. “I know why this is happening… it’s cause of this feeling of lack of control, that I still can’t function and fucking twat Nicholson in the eyeballs, even after sitting by his feet like a dog for three weeks…”  
  
“Malcolm, please, you need to speak to someone about it who isn't holding a bleedin’ camera to yer face! This is the only way you can get better and start working again… and help me out… because those bills aren't gonna pay themselves!”  
  
“ _I am working.”_  
  
“You’re tired and you need rest too! Have you seen a doctor? Have you spoken to anyone?”  
“I have told someone.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The voice in my head… he’s a thousand times more compelling and less fucking patronising than anyone you will find.” Malcolm huffed and rolled over, ignoring the petulant rumble of his stomach. The light outside indicated that it was early now - around 4 or 5.   
Wouldn't be a bad time to get up and work.  
  
He dragged himself off of bed, while Michael stared at him sadly. “David worries for ye, y’know? The poor lad is barely 6 and all he can think about is how his uncle Malc looks thinner than their class hamster.”  
“Then they should feed the fucking hamster.”  
“ _This is your nephew Malcolm. Your fucking nephew. You owe it to him at least, you’ve treated him like your own son and God’s knows I’m thankful for it…”_  
“If I treated him like my own son, then I know what’s best for him too. And knowing about my life problems isn't going to do him any good. I’m making breakfast.”  
  
‘It’ll get cold.”  
  
“Then warm it up, for fuck’s sake, do we not have a microwave? Stop acting like an emotional fucking woman ready to burn the house down, fuck knows that’s why I broke up with Elise. Jesus you’ve become like some fucked up Jane Eyre fucking fuck.”  
  
“You’re not even cussing properly.”  
  
Malcolm hissed and stalked into the kitchen, viciously breaking four eggs into a bowl, and began to concentrate on perfectly chopping vegetables to add into the omelette.   
  
He wasn't going to let Frank the Fucker win. He was going to find a way to get Andy out (he had scouted a nice little position in IT for him at UNIT, _consider it a favour for making me eat in prison, ya pasty mewling nerd)_ and he was going to take his life piece by fucking piece and hurl it at a Universe that was adamant on taking it from him.  
  
Although it did seem like the universe was compensating for it’s earlier twattiness - his silence and sleep deprivation had turned him into a spectre almost as miserable as the Malcolm in prison, making Kate feel a slight twinge of sympathy for the man. She had even offered to provide medical support on their pay should he need it, but Malcolm declined graciously, instead planning on using the blood from Kate’s bleeding heart to write Alex Nicholson’s resignation with.  
  
As he carefully plopped two omelettes on the plate and arranged the toasts with the practised flourish worthy of a _chef de cuisine,_ he began to prepare two cups of coffee for himself and Michael, and milkshake for David. The smell of food that filled his nostrils released the tension in his muscles. _I made this food. Fucking nectar and ambrosia of the gods, this._ As Malcolm plonked the food on the table and began to arrange the cutlery, a tiny body pressed against his leg.   
  
“Uncle Malc?” it yawned.  
  
“Aye… You up already? Yer Dad’s gonna get mad at me…” Malcolm looked down at David who was leaning against his leg. He’d grown a couple of inches since he’d seen him last, and now his head was balancing precariously on Malcolm’s thin waist.  
  
“I heard shouting…” David rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Were you and da shoutin’?”  
  
“Aye, you know how adults greet each other every morning. Especially Scot ones. Come on now, if you’re awake you can freshen up. Breakfast’s ready.”  
David nodded, silently putting his arms around his waist and burying his face into Malcolm’s thigh. He recoiled his head and stuck his tongue out, “Ewwww you’re so smelly! You’re all sweaty and smelly, Uncle Malc!”  
  
Malcolm looked at this shirt that was drenched in sweat. He sighed and arranged the forks.  
  
“Aye. I don’t get time to exercise so I run around in bed.”  
  
“That’s bad. Bed’s are for sleeping.” David added, teasingly.  
  
“Not for grown ups it isn’t. Off with ye…” He tapped David’s head, as the little boy ambled his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The Tucker household was quiet again. Malcolm sipped on his coffee and forced the omelette down his mouth.  
  
He needed food. He needed energy. Andy’s face swam into his mind’s eye.  
  
He thought of the report sitting on his bureau in his bedroom.  
  
It was now or never. All the ingredients were on the counter… all that was left to do was make an omelette. Malcolm looked down at his empty plate. _Une omelette de les bollocks de Nicholson._  
  
His speciality.

 

***

 

“Morning Grace!”  
  
“Morning Malcolm, you look good. Slept well?”  
  
“Nah, working on that. Had a great breakfast - I made some. I’m fuller than Simon Cowell’s ballsack.”  
  
Grace grimaced and placed his daily pile of work on his desk. Malcolm graciously placed a hand over it; but he paid no attention to it, as he continued to read a print out he had in his hands.  
  
“What’s that?” Grace asked in a a low voice.  
  
“Nitroglycerin…” he mumbled.  
  
Grace decided not to pry further. If he wanted to tell her what it was, he would have. She retreated back to helping Lord Nicholson, who simply pretended that Malcolm didn't exist.   
_Malcolm had seemed to mellow down against Alex_ … Grace thought. Maybe he really was tired of all this politics and decided to simply accept life as it was.  
  
_Or maybe there was something going on in that veined, gigantic head of his._  
  
She decided to wait and watch. Malcolm grabbed a pen and paper and began to scribble something down, a smile flashing on his face.  
  
He looked up at Grace and beckoned her over, his eyes focusing on Alex Nicholson who was slowly typing something onto his computer. Alex’s eyes rose to see Grace walking towards Malcolm. The temperature in the room palpably dropped.  
  
Malcolm smoothly handed over the first two sheets of his pile to Grace, slipping his own under it. “Take these up to Kate - they're the draft reports on the media coverage on the new gold plated guns for the… _Cybermen?”_  
  
“Yeah, metal humanoids….”  
  
“I know what they are, just confirming that’s what you call them. I’ve highlighted all the key words and phrases that could result in damage our chances of defending the take over of one gun’s manufacturing factory.”  
  
Grace looked at the sheets and rifled to the one that Malcolm had added.  
  
It was a blank sheet with the sentence, “Leaving for a bit. Found some intel. Cover for me.” written on it. Her eyes locked into Malcolm’s and a silent agreement passed between them.  
  
“You know what, I’ll take them to Kate myself. Malcolm snatched the papers from Grace and was about to race out of the door, when Alex stood up. “Is something the problem, Malcolm?”  
“Yeah, oh _no,_ Lord Nicholson no problem at all. Just going to speak to Kate.”  
  
“You better not get naughty or you might just find yourself in prison. Director Kate told me to keep an eye on you, you know. And you’re a respectable man, who I don’t want to see spending his pension years in prison.”  
  
“I’m sure you don’t,” Malcolm purred. “I’m just going to see Director Stewart, might take a but though. Needed a word about… er… medical bills. Sure you can hold out without me?”  
“Of course Mr Tucker. Nicholson’s demeanour change suddenly. “Of course, take all the time you need.”  
  
Malcolm slapped his forehead, “Grace I keep forgetting where she is, could you tell me?”  
  
“Yeah I’ll show you. Would you like me to take these prints to her, Lord Nicholson?”  
“Please do, Grace. You’re a lovely girl. Thank you,” Alex said. Malcolm could make out what he was doing - a pathetic attempt to score Grace’s respect.  
  
Would have worked, if it had not been for the damning scans Sam had sent him. He walked out of Nicholson’s office for the last time, as typed out a few words and saved the email to Kate as a draft with the words. “Look familiar? It’s Nicholson’s newest ‘crib’.”

 

***

  
Not so far away, in Satan’s right bollock, Andy was sitting silently on the table, with his fellow Muscunteers, as Malcolm had called them. They were eating and conversing freely, and Andy wouldn't dare say but this was the best he had ever felt in prison ever since he had stepped foot in it a year ago.  
  
The incident with Malcolm’s release had literally overturned the prisoners’ power hierarchy on it’s head. Frank and his cohort had been put under maximum security for a month and peace had reigned in their daily activities. Andy was coping well and for once in his life he believed a ‘friend’. Malcolm might not have seemed like someone who would align himself with Andy, but Andy dared himself to believe that maybe… just maybe, Malcolm would get him out of here. That Malcolm would have his back.   
  
With pleasant thoughts and a relatively full stomach, Andy whistled under his breath as they headed to their first work shift in the Social Room. He was beginning to enjoy that work a lot, and his muscles were slowly beginning to buff up thanks to it.   
  
So, he didn't notice a strange woman with an umbrella considering him from the far end of the canteen. And he didn't notice that she had a horribly ominous smile plastered on her face - a smile that promised more doom and gloom than the whole of the ‘2012’ movie.

 

  
***

 

  
“So after Canary Wharf incident and the Adipose Industries incident, the Secretary General of the UN was rather fucking pissed. Or more specifically, the self righteous bastards that are the P5 nations, were.”  
  
“Okay.” Grace was practically running to keep up with Malcolm’s strides, her heels clicking across the polished wooden floors.  
  
‘UNIT were planning a massive operation to relocate headquarters - Torchwood One had just shut down due to the battle of Canary Wharf and decommissioned, so the Crown lent that building to UNIT. UNIT would have gotten a fucking ginormous amount of resources and land by relocating there. But thanks to international pressure, long story short, the Canary Wharf complex of UNIT was shut down.”   
  
“That was when my sources heard that Julius was fucking around with ministerial perks and contacts to get a tax break - something about diverting government funding into a private account. Naturally I was about to fucking shove his shiny fucking head up his own arse, when he said that he wasn't doing it for himself, but for his brother. Alex. He said that Alex was doing something “charitable, downright humane,” by buying a property. He was helping covering “the metaphorical drunk girl friend with his coat.” But it was fucking clever, i have to admit.”  
“What was it?”  
“Instead of trying to cover up or lessen the impact of the Secretary General’s damning report on UNIT’s activities and their subsequent shut down of Canary Wharf, Nicholson bought the building himself. More specifically, under a holding he had made in America with Julius’ contacts, where he had stashed up the diverted money. He then leased the Canary Wharf Complex to a company, to allegedly remove any record of UNIT involvement. But the report still came out to fuck you in the arse. He made UNIT walk down the metaphorical dark alley full of rapists and murderers armed with a fucking Curly Wurly for comfort.”  
“What company did he lease it to?”  
“A company that was linked to Blue Skies, where Julius worked - don’t know the name. They advertised themselves with some shite about ‘harvesting true human potential’ or some emotional, Green Wing cock. But Blue skies eventually broke ties with them, taking away all their investment. So they were looking for donors and found the biggest, fattest and ugliest golden ducks to ram their hands into, in the heart of the British administration.”  
  
“So what are you going to do?”  
  
“Be fucking James Bond, what else? I am going to pay a visit to the company, find out it’s name and manifesto, and as Alex Nicholson’s assistant, and ask for documents that would catalogue his involvement. Investments, lease records, the works.”  
  
“Why would they…” Grace almost screamed at the paper Malcolm had thrust under her nose. It was a signed letter from Lord Alex Nicholson.  
  
“How?”  
“While you and Kate were busy wondering about the best way to throw me into hospital, I was whoring myself to old colleagues, extracting favours. And for fuck’s sake, I deal in all kinds of shady shit - who’s to say that i don't know how to forge a signature.”  
  
“Malcolm…” Grace looked up to see Malcom, who was not recognisable at all. He was like those hunting dogs, who had smelt the chase in the air.  
  
“Just get me that car Grace. I’m going fucking spring cleaning for you lot.”  


***

  
Andy had returned to his cell and was changing his shirt, when two guards walked in. “Andrew Sparks?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You have a medical examination schedules. Please follow me.”  
  
Andy wanted to question the guards, but silently followed. He allowed them to handcuff him. Anticipation bubbled in his chest… had Malcolm come to get him?  
  
He dared himself to believe.  
  
He was taken into a well lit room, where a woman in a plum dress was sitting, filing her nails. Her legs were on the table and her phone lay beside her leg.   
  
“Ma’am? Andrew Sparks…”  
  
“Yes, yes I know, now run along and play with your guns and your handcuffs… I’m borrowing these, by the way.” She indicated at the handcuffs and the taser.  
  
“Erm ma’am…”  
  
“Are you really questioning my authority? Would you like me to put in a word with the chief? Frobisher _daaarrlliiiiiiiinnggg_ ” The lady called out. Them men withdrew immediately.  
  
“Now,” she said, purring at Andy, “I hope they didn't treat you awfully, they have such horrid manners. If you don't mind I have some questions for you.”  
  
She put her arm around Andy’s waist and slowly drew close to his lips. She considered his face for a while and muttered, “The upgrade will really help this one.”   
  
Andy felt his collar going warm, and his voice stuttering. “D-D-Did Malcolm send you?”  
  
“Who’s that? Wait hold on… thinking.”   
  
Andy was getting confused by the minute. She was leading him around, surely she had come here to break him out? Possibly she wasn't allowed to say, like in those spy movies.  
  
“Oh I get it, you cant tell me.” He was happy now. All that remained to be answered was that if she had come to break him out, why were they waiting in here?  
“No I can’t tell you. Whatever it is that you wanted me to… blah blah blah, can’t you shut up for a second?”  
  
“Why am I here? Aren’t we supposed to be out?”  
The woman gave Andy a cold hard glare. It was icier than the Antarctic and the blue was piercing… like icicles that could stab your heart. She then smiled, placing a hand gently on his cheek.  
  
“I am going to kill you. It’s for an experiment. Or” the woman considered for a second, “Spring cleaning. Too many living apes around. I don’t like it.”  
  
 Andy looked at her aghast. Surely she was kidding.  
  
“Haha, very funny miss. What are you…” his voice faltered at her smile, a dawning realisation struck him.   
  
_This was some fucking messed up concentration camp shit._  
  
He struggled against the woman. She sighed, “Oh please don’t make this messy…”  
  
She was surprisingly strong. He kicked her leg, and turned to make it out of the door, when he felt a sudden pain in his neck. He placed his hand over the spurting blood. His artery had been nicked. He collapsed on the floor, gasping, as blood pooled around him.  
  
The lady removed the blade she was carrying in her sleeve and wiped it on his pant. She was carrying a bag of sorts and she placed it close to his feet, and began to fiddle with her phone. She pressed a button on her phone and suddenly the bag whirred to life. Mist began to come out of it and coalesced to form puddles. The mercurial puddles inched towards him.   
  
“Malcolm, eh? Malcolm Tucker? The grey one? The one that looks like the Doctor? Is that who you’re talking about?” that lady added thoughtfully, as she ignored Andy’s cries for help. Oh come on, you’re not _saying_ anything… _how_ can I help you if you don’t tell if that’s who you're talking about?” The lady pouted at Andy. “Oh I wouldn't do that…” The liquid, beginning to look like mercury, had begun to climb up his legs and he tried to prise it away with his fingers.  
  
The liquid leapt onto his fingers, latching onto the organic material. Andy tried swatting it away but the material began to seep into his skin. His head began to whirl. A whizzing greeted his ears, as thousands of voices erupted into his head… buzzing and angry.  
  
He was screaming as the last of the substance covered his nose and shut his breathing. He gasped and coughed, breathing heavily from the mouth. His eyes were sunken dark sockets, and his head was encased in the metal.   
  
“Soon, his mind will join the Nethersphere. Squeeze him to death, my lovelies.” The lady’s voice seemed to say..   
  
The woman smiled acerbically, “Say something nice?”  
  
“Please… don’t… kill… me…” he rasped. The liquid covered his mouth, and he gurgled disgustingly as if someone had poured cement into his mouth.   
  
The lady considered the creature standing in front of her and waited for a few minutes, before cautiously saying, “Andy? Andy darling, you in there?”  
  
The creature stood up and turned it’s head to face her. It stood in attention.   
  
“Good. Now that you’re all less leaky and shouty…” she stepped gingerly over the blood and placed a hand over it’s chest and asked, “Is this man Malcolm the one who came on TV? The one who looks like the Doctor?”  
  
Andy looked at the woman and nodded.  
  
The woman laughed openly, slinging her arm around Andy. “Oh _Andy,”_ she said in a false American accent. “We’re gonna be best buddies, you and me.” She grabbed the taser and the handcuffs, and pressed a button on her phone again and they disappeared in a flash of blue light. The guards smashed in the door and stared at the open bag and the missing occupants.   
  
“Call the alarm.” A guard said, hoarsely.  
  
“The Chief’s gonna ‘ave our ‘eads.”


	14. The Name's Tucker. Malcolm Tucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this chapter didn't add into the story :/  
> Sorry about that!

 

Andy felt himself to be sitting in a chair, in a huge white room. The madwoman was seated before him, still filing her nails. It was as if everything that had happened in prison were a random, horrible dream. Andy touched his body. It felt cold.

 

“Why am I cold?” he blurted.

 

“Because you are encased inside a metal. Metal’s are usually cold. Give it a minute in this sun and you’ll be burning up. Now,” the lady leaned forward, “I need you to tell me - is this man Malcolm Tucker?”

 

She pushed an iPad before him. He recognised the picture - Malcolm. He was wearing a black suit and had short cropped hair…

 

“Yeah - no wait! This was the other guy… who took Malcolm away! They look the same…”

 

The lady picked up the iPad and grinned at the picture, “Oh darling, you really are _so lazy…_ ”

 

“Where am I? Is this prison? What is this place?”

The lady sighed at the picture, “How do you keep these apes around? They’re so talkative. You’re in heaven.” She gestured grandly around the room, a bored expression on her face. “Well, or a part of it, at least. The After Life. The Promised Land.”

 

“That’s rubbish.”

 

“Is it?”

 

She raised a challenging eyebrow at Andy. Andy gulped.

 

“Who… who are you?”

“Missy.” she said in a singsong voice. “Well I should be off… work to do, fantasies to recreate,” she winked seductively at Andy, and traipsed out of the room. “My friend Seb will take care of you.”

 

Andy stood up and shouted at her. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME? WHERE AM I? WHERE AM I?”

 

Missy just cackled.

 

***

Missy woke up in a darkened room. The steady thrum of the machinery about her eased her considerably, as she pulled out the two wires connected to her head with a sigh. Getting inside the Nethersphere was so bloody dramatic. _Time Lords,_ she hissed under her breath. She looked about her ‘office’, with its Cyberman-eyes shaped windows.

 

 _Not one for subtlety, Cybermen. So upfront. So distasteful._ With a jolt she remembered that she had pretty much designed the whole building.

 

_Oh right yeah. Remind me to smash those windows._

 

She grabbed the iPad and searched the words “Malcolm Tucker.” A whole bunch of pictures began to appear in front of her as she quickly skimmed through all the details. Smiling salaciously, she pressed a button on her wristband. “If a man by the name of Malcolm Tucker calls, I should be informed immediately. Pronto. And let him in.”

 

She threw the iPad away and grabbed her newly acquired handcuffs, stuffing them into her pocket, lazing on her chair. One button was all she needed to press, to activate the chain of events that would get the Doctor to come running to her. One dead boyfriend and a whiny human. That was why she had slaved away on Earth, building this stupid company, sweet talking and hypnotising her way through. Getting her hands all dirty with these apes.

 

She would make him see how much they needed each other… how similar he was to her… how, her ‘best friend’, had abandoned her without care or thought to follow some moral compass that was too naive and unachievable anyway. She would make him see how he caused destruction everywhere he went, despite his best efforts not to. He was no different from her: he was nothing more than the arrogant, hypocritical Prydonian she’d met at the Academy. True to his blood, or should she say, his Chapter.

 

And Malcolm was just a new piece, an unintentionally amusing piece that had entered the game. It was like the Universe was begging her to go have more fun than she was already having, just to compensate for the _years_ boredom. 

 

She had Andy. She would soon have Malcolm. And then she would have the Doctor.

 

_Maybe she could have Malcolm and the Doctor together. And then she could let the Doctor watch her kill Malcolm._

 

Her ‘phone’ pinged. “A Mr Tucker has arrived?” a soft voice said.

 

“Send him up to forty, now there’s a good girl.”

 

She could have kissed the Universe.

 

***

Malcolm sat in the car, clutching his phone like it was a lifeline, his face ashen, and his entire form shaking. Grace had called in and he had thought she was going to start shouting at him. He had picked up and started to deflect her with his ‘rustic charm’.

 

“Look Grace, this is going to take longer than 10 minutes…”

 

“Malcolm. I am so sorry.”

 

Malcolm froze and asked, slowly, “Grace…?”

 

She took a deep breath, “I just heard… Andy was reported missing from prison. Someone broke in and….”

 

“And what? Grace?”

“I don’t think he survived. They found a pool of blood and it was his. I am so sorry Malcolm.”

 

Malcolm’s brain screeched to a halt. He imagined Andy’s face, horribly mangled and savaged. “Did they find his body? Was it Frank?”

 

“No, he’s in a different jail. The cameras were shut remotely and so we were contacted. Turns out it was a long range damper.”

“Okay. Let me know what you find.” Malcolm tried to put nonchalance in his manner, but it made his voice oddly high pitched.

 

“Of course.” Grace murmured. “Malcolm… if I may suggest something… my sister in law… she and her family suffered PTSD for a while, and so I do know a thing or two about it… this will most likely trigger another set of traumas. It might make you remember your older trauma, please Malcolm. Speak to someone.”

 

Malcolm vaguely heard her. He silently cut the call, and sat in the car staring at the blank screen of his phone. His phone embodied his work and career. And his work and career always served to remind him why he kept himself aloof from everybody.

 

Was it because he was an emotionally unstable Scot, with so many broken human relationships since childhood? Because he was the only idiot in Whitehall to stay and work overtime during Christmas? Because he loved his job and his party so much, that he sold all his morality and human decency on the black market, to buy the fucking tanks and armours that would keep it safe?

 

He clutched his phone like a lifeline.

 

After an eternity and fifteen minutes, he was in Canary Wharf. The car pulled up in front of a large, modern office complex. Malcolm got out of the car and made his way inside the gate.

 

He flashed his temporary UNIT ID to security and strode to the reception. “Good morning,” the lady at the desk said, and Malcolm smiled back. “How can we help you today, sir?”

“My name is Malcolm Tucker, I’m from UNIT on behalf of Lord Alex Nicholson. I came here to collect his statements for returns on his… ah…investment.” The second Malcolm was done he wanted to punch himself in the face. He should have called ahead and warned that he would be coming… he might have to wait and book an appointment and he didn't know how long Grace would cover for him till Alex realised what was wrong.

 

_Shitshitshitshitshitshit…_

 

The lady raised an eyebrow as if the name sounded familiar, and after a few clicks on her computer, and a hushed phone call, she raised her head to smile at Malcolm. “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Tucker. Please take the lift to the fortieth floor.” She handed him his visitor’s badge, which Malcolm took in numb hands. 

 

He couldn't believe his dumb luck - he could have punched the air, if he didn't feel that odd sinking sensation in his stomach - she hadn't even asked for his identification. He got off on the fortieth floor, and felt like properly ripping his hair out in frustration. _Where the fuck is accounts? I am looking for accounts._

 

He stepped onto the fortieth and walked out onto the floor, taking in the ambiance and surroundings. _The company was probably called 3W_ , Malcolm thought, as he noticed the words sketched in gold onto the dark red walls, encased inside a golden circle with a little tear shaped knob coming out of the bottom. He discreetly took a picture. 

 

This floor looked less like an office and more like the sitting room of a huge apartment. There were paintings hung on the wall - with weird circles drawn on them. A huge chandelier hung over a large, table and the velvety curtains, had been drawn, throwing in harsh sunshine to break the soft, rich mood. A sofa set lay before the windows, a Malcolm noticed a teapot and scones resting on the coffee table. There was a grand piano facing the windows. Malcolm noticed a dark corridor leading away to… nowhere. Malcolm debated whether he should explore more, but he stopped, realising that there was something really off about this floor.

 

“You lost, darling?” A voice called out. 

 

Malcolm’s brain pinged, “ _She’s Scottish.”_

 

He turned to face the owner of the voice. It seemed to come from the shadow of the corridor. “Hello?” he said tentatively. 

 

A woman stepped into the light. 

 

Malcolm frankly didn't know what he should have expected her to look like, considering the ambiance of the floor. The woman looked like someone had plonked her out of the Victorian era, with her rich purple blouse and high waisted skirt of the same colour. She was swinging an umbrella in one hand, and had her hair tied up in an intricate bun. A hat balanced precariously on this ensemble of hair.

 

However, Malcolm couldn't take his gaze away from her eyes. Those eyes shimmered and turned into various shades of blue - they were dark when the woman was in the shadows, but walking into the sunlight showed them to be baby blue. Malcolm had the distinct impression of being X-Rayed. 

 

She had drawn a little too close for comfort, her eyes fixed on his face.

 

“I was looking for accounts…”

 

“That’ll be on the thirtieth floor,” she said mechanically, and glared at his face. “My _goodness.”_ She suddenly raised her hand and ran her hand proprietarily through Malcolm’s hair, making him jump away with a growl. 

 

_“What the fuck are you doing?”  
_

“Oooh touchy.’ She pouted and leant on her umbrella. She looked like a porn parody version of Mary Poppins. 

 

Malcolm realised what was wrong. “There is nobody here. Where is everybody? Isn’t this supposed to be a bustling business of saving people from dying or uploading people or some other cosmic level, nerdgasm inducing bile?”

 

The woman laughed, “Oh you’re a clever little human aren't you? My, my it _is_ my birthday…”

 

_Human._

 

_She called me human._

 

_That's not good._

 

“Erm…” Malcom didn't have time to ponder on how easily he was accepting this. He knew if she was an alien, he was _waaay_ out of his depth. A voice in his head was screaming at him to call UNIT and shut this shit down.

 

“Speak up! I hear your eloquence is unmatched in the corridors in Downing Street. You even managed to convince me of it during the press conference. Come on… impress a girl, Malcolm Tuckaah.”

 

He blanched at her saying his full name, and knowing where he worked, though to be fair, the internet did exist, ‘What the… you know what, I don’t even want to know.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“You’re alien. I don't know how, but you’ve got some green shit living inside you and I’m sorry that it is, but it’s too early in the fucking day for me to deal with this shit. I’ll just show myself out.”

 

Malcolm turned and calmly strode to the lift, his insides dancing with fear and anticipation. Was she going to eat him? Or impale him? Or…

 

The woman caught him by the elbow and spun him around, throwing him against the wall close to the lift. She slammed him against it with so much force, he felt the air leave his chest.

 

_Like on the floor of the social room. Pinned down by Frank…_

 

He tried to concentrate on what was happening, but his mind was keeling down a rabbit hole. Old memories began to spring out of their hiding place, and the way the woman was fussing over him was frankly not helping.

 

“Still skinny then? Good. Easier to throw around. He was always such a pushover anyway.”

“Woman, get off me…”

 

“Or what?” The woman was looking up at him, grinning from ear to ear.

 

Malcolm summoned up all the dark demons of his rage to scream above those pushing him down with fear. He locked eyes savagely with the woman, “Or I will shove an open umbrella up your shitter so hard, you’d be able to transmit a message back to your fucking mothership to come and collect your entrails.”

 

The woman’s eyes became wide, the blue becoming more prominent under her dark mascara. Malcolm braced himself for the screaming or crying, whichever came first. He was used to that.

 

And then, to his surprise, she laughed. She laughed so hard she had to clutch Malcolm’s shoulder for support, heaving. After two minutes, she straightened up and wiped a tear from her eye. Malcolm’s confusion grew above his mind crippling excursion to hell land a few seconds ago. Most women usually frowned upon his ‘violent’ imagery. This one fucking laughed.

 

“Now _that_ is what I came to this planet for. Experience the culture! What’s the point of spending so much time and not learning a few cuss words.” Her eyes suddenly became playful - and the way the eyeliner framed her eyes made it look all the more menacing, “Is this emotion we’re experiencing one that you would call… _foreplay?”_

 

“W-what? NO! This is definitely not that… no” Malcolm shook his head so hard he thought he would twist it.

 

“No? Pity. Where is all the chivalry gone?” she dramatically raised a hand to her head. “All the _emotions_ and _etiquette_ this land was known for. I even chose to dress for the occasion!” She huffed and indicated at her dress. “Well I guess we’ll get right to it then…” She drew inexplicably close. So close, he could practically see the individual eyelashes.

 

“Yeah, Catherine de Bourgh, great to hear that you’re - ah - integrating with the people and all, but I should really be going now…” He made to slip out of her iron grasp. 

 

“Going? So soon?” her eyes began to melt into his mind, reaching into his heart. They were pleading.

 

 _She seemed so lonely_ , Malcolm thought his mind said. _All alone in a big dark place that didn't know or care about her, and if they truly found out who she was_ \- Malcolm could still hear the sickening crunch of the Vespiform falling after the bullets riddled it’s body. He thought he could hear it scream. 

 

Malcolm’s head snapped. “FOCUS!” the little voice in his head shouted, and as the sleepy haze on his eyes lifted, he regarded the woman in front of him. She was staring - no - concentrating at him. With horror, he realised what she was doing - the Doctor had done the same thing to him during Christmas!

 

But before he could think of processing this information, the woman had firmly planted her lips on his. She was sucking the air out of his lungs, as one hand splayed over his chest, feeling him all over. The other ran through his hair, pulling at his follicles as she pushed him against the wall, gently this time. She murmured against his lips, “Great hair. Second to mine, though. Remind me to ask him to grow it out.”

 

“Ask who?”

 

“Exactly.” She continued to kiss him, slowly parting and biting at his lips. Malcolm suppressed a whimper. His brain tried forcing him to extricate himself out of this tangle of limbs, when a soft voice prompted. 

 

_Stay._

 

Her voice whispered in his head. It was definitely her saying that. No woman had, in all these miserable years of his existence, ever wanted him to stay. Not that he ever would have wanted them to.

 

 _Work will always pull me away._ He shouted back at the voice for what it was worth. The woman deepened the kiss, now cupping his neck and devouring him whole. The other hand was slipping dangerously close to his loins.

 

 _I have a job to finish!_ He shouted at the voice. _I have to do this._ Images of Nicholson’s forged letter, and his urge to take over Department of Media Management surged through his body like electricity. He would watch Nicholson walk away, shamed by his organisation - that was how Malcolm did it. That was how he done it, countless times before. He would arrange the corpses of his enemies like a ladder and reach his goal. 

 

Suddenly, Malcolm found he could breath again.

 

The woman was looking at him, an odd smile on her face. “Looks like my boyfriend, and is low key like me? I am digging it.” She said stressing on the ‘d’, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth daintily.

 

“Run along then. Go and make some noise. A little chaos. For me.” She said petulantly.

  
Malcolm stared at her, his eyes still half open, and his mouth still pouting as if awaiting a kiss. He realised how stupid he probably looked and straightened his coat, coughing. 

 

“It’s Missy by the way.” She said, winking at him.

 

“What is?”

 

“My name, silly. You didn't ask.” She grabbed his hand and led him to the lift.

 

“Who the fuck are you?” he rasped. His inner Casanova was not feeling it today - hell it hadn't felt anything in seven years.

 

“Hush now.” She thrust him inside and smiled, leaning against the lift frame. “You’ll never find me again, so don’t bother calling those block heads from UNIT to come and break down my expensive front door. It’ll make me very cross.”

 

“Really?” Malcom paused and added, “So what happens when I finish my work?” It was a desperate attempt to get the alien Missy cornered and contained. God knows what the fuck she would do if UNIT didn't intervene - he had a whole boxful of reports with ideas. He tried to make it sound suggestive, and it frighteningly didn't take much acting. 

 

Missy purred, “I’ll find you.”

 

The lift doors shut and led Malcolm down to the thirtieth floor, and when the doors opened to reveal a normal office space, Malcolm almost pinched himself. He valiantly straightened his hair and made his way to the desk, handing the forged letter.

 

“Hi, I was sent by Lord Nicholson to collect his investment reports and updates on the lease and rent, they didn't come through in the mail…”

 

On the inside, Malcolm’s heart was leaping about with adrenaline. He had never been teased like this and his brain didn't know what to make of it - the occasional fling would get over pretty quickly, and so he never usually had time to actually think it out. This was new. This was interesting. This was fucking scary.

 

_Is this how the Doctor manages to get so many women around him? Telepathically whisper them into a pity fuck about it?_

 

He shook his head and glared at the papers that had been placed before him by the accountant; after picking them up and politely thanking the man, he practically raced out of the young man’s office. This is why he hated field work. Too much danger, too much drama. A sadistic part of his brain was laughing at him.

 

_Way to go, James fucking Bond._

 

Back on the 40th floor, Missy slowly raised her hand and shut her eyes as if to concentrate. She could feel it under her hand - the beat of one heart. One human heart.

 

_How dull. Ordinary. Pedestrian._

 

_And yet that one face was enough to have almost brought her to her knees. One heart making those two hearts pump enough blood to fill up two Eyes of Harmony in 10 seconds. Enough to make her want to snog the living life out of his doppelgänger._

 

Missy cursed her friend. 

 

Missy cursed the Doctor.

 

She would make him see. and when he would, he would be friends with her again.

 

 

***

Malcolm slowed as he entered the main lobby of the thirtieth floor. Bustling activity and comfortable chatter reminded Malcolm that this was indeed an office space of a secretly well to do organisation and not a facade for a well furnished, secret harem of a scary woman in fancy dress. 

 

_Or was it?_

 

He noticed that the work force on this floor was rather small - strange for a company that had the British government working around their finger tips. And this was a large building as well, it could be that were more floors with workers spread around for more spacious offices… 

 

_But the offices weren’t that big either._

 

Malcolm noticed how everyone in the administration and accounts department were cooped up in cubicles. Now why would that be? 

 

Malcolm was hit by a sudden inspiration when he saw a young woman in a lab coat tiredly flipping through papers at her desk. He recognised the symptoms of a sugar crash and long nights. He flipped his badge to hide the ‘visitor’ sign, and grabbed a plastic glass of water, ambling up to her.

 

“Long night, eh?”

 

“Oh you have no idea,” the lady suddenly looked up to face Malcolm, her eyes magnified in her glasses. Malcolm offered her the cup, and she took it gratefully. “Thank you… I am sorry I don’t think I remember seeing you here? It’s a small office, so I tend to remember everyone’s names…”

 

“Oh that’s no problem. John Frobisher,” Malcolm said smiling. That was his code name for whenever he was in a situation where he didn't want his identity compromised for whatever reason. “I sort of run errands around this place…” he shrugged at the papers in his hand. “Just thought I’d stop by and admire the view. But I reckon I’d be better off going higher up in the building, eh?” he said looking carelessly at the ceiling.

 

“Well, good luck trying to find an empty room - most of the rooms here are machinated. R&D. Only floors 25 - 30 actually have any functioning humans in them…”

 

“You seem like you’re from R&D” he pointed at her white coat.

 

“Oh I was visiting. I’m the science liaison for 3W. The clients hound me when they want pages of research condensed into two syllabi of speech.”

 

“Jesus Christ that’s fucking tiring!”

 

“That’s indeed fucking tiring, yes.”

 

“So why can’t you have a view there? There might still be windows?”

 

“Nope. They've joined all the floors together to make like this super huge factory. Can’t tell you what’s in there though, sorry. You need clearance for that stuff.”

 

Malcolm waved his hand dismissively, “Yeah don’t really care about all that science shit. A good view however, on such a nice day…”

 

The woman’s eyes fired up, “It’s some excellent research though! Ground breaking stuff! If we manage to pull this off, we can usher into a new age of human development! Imagine…” she said clutching Malcolm’s coat, “Imagine if you could save Einstein’s brains, forever! Perfect copy. A replica. We could develop and progress so much more…”

 

Malcolm’s eyes grew wide, “That sounds fascinating yeah!”

 

“That’s it? Fascinating?”

 

“Look I genuinely don't know what you guys do here! I just pass by, y’know. Mind you, I’d love to…” he said, sighing.

 

“Wait. Here,” she handed him a pamphlet. It was rather thick and bore the name of 3W. “This is like a basic understanding of what the company does. We might soon be rolling out services to the public, so consider signing up! It’s literally an opportunity for a lifetime. Don’t go around throwing the name 3W though,” her voice lowered, “We’re not ready to share this information yet, considering the, ah, volatile nature of world politics, but definitely give it a thought!”

 

Malcolm looked at the pamphlet meaningfully. “Thanks,” he raised the paper to her, “I will definitely read it through, and I’ll pop by and say hello when I come next time. Bye!”

 

The lady waved jovially at him, as he walked to the lifts, shoving the pamphlet into his coat pocket. A smug smile spread across his face, as he pressed send on the draft email he had prepared for Kate.

 


	15. Malcolm makes a Corpse Ladder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break up the last chapter which would have ended up becoming pretty long - so here we have a short interlude of a chapter! 
> 
> More intrigue to come...

Malcolm found himself in Kate’s office in about half an hour, and before Kate could say a word to him, he slammed the reports he had found. Kate’s face turned ashen as she rifled through the papers.  
  
“Malcolm, please tell me you’ve forged these?”  
  
“Really wish I could boss, but you know, the proof is in the pudding smashing into your face at a 100 kilometres per hour.”  
  
“How did you even manage to get them?”  
“Ah, now that was thanks to a bit of cheating a lot of charm.”  
  
“ _Malcolm!”_  
  
“It was for the good of Queen and Country, I swear it on my left arse cheek. Now will you look at it?”  
  
Kate removed her glasses and looked sadly at the papers before her. Page after page of accounts showed that Lord Nicholson had been reaping the benefits of leasing the land to the company.   
  
“What was it’s name again?”  
  
“3W. I managed to get a pamphlet. They’re really hush, hush about it - it felt like a fucking nunnery.”  
  
 _Well, when I say nunnery,_ Malcolm’s brain flashed back to Missy biting at his lip while pushing her hand down to crotch. A shiver racked his body, at the thoughts of the parallelism.  
  
 _Behave. Working._  
  
“How on earth did you manage that?”  
  
“Look I was really good at my job, how much more proof do ya need you mad woman…”  
“Tell me everything.”  
  
Malcom recounted the events of that morning, discreetly leaving out the bits with Missy. When he mentioned the bit about using a fake name, he thought he saw Kate flash that rare smile of hers.  
  
After he was done, she looked up at Malcolm and asked, in a soft voice, “Is Lord Nicholson really that bad at his job?”  
  
“I am sorry Kate. I know how important he is to you, and how he was to your dad… Grace said.” He answered her look, “But you need new blood.”  
  
Kate considered Malcolm for a second and then resolutely got up from her chair, getting inches into Malcolm’s face. Malcolm angrily crossed his eyebrows, “What the fuck is it now?”  
  
“Will you work faithfully for UNIT and carry out all the duties that are required of you? Menial or not?”  
  
“… what?”  
“Will you promise not to embroil our organisation in worthless politics and use spin to help protect us from it?”  
  
“Uh… yeah, obviously? Look I’ll read it all in the contract okay? No need for this, ritualistic initiation ceremony twattery. Please.”  
  
“Go tell Lord Nicholson to come meet me. Wait in his office.”  
  
Malcolm took two steps away from Kate, “Please don't ever come under my nose again, I get it. I am tall. Go hang on a monkey bar or something.”  
  
He was pretty much done with woman getting into his personal space; it was getting fucking annoying and he wasn't in the mood to be politically correct and not punch someone in the face.  
  
And yet, no number of mad women could dampen the fire that was his soul.   
  
***  
  
Nicholson’s office was not that far away from Kate’s and Malcolm stood at the door, listening intently to the angry voices emanating from Kate’s room.  
  
“ _This is all his doing! He’s set me up!”_  
  
 _“But you are not denying this and you even fudged up the reports covering Canary Wharf!”_  
  
 _“This is an attack, I will not have it…”_  
  
 _‘Please don’t force me to do this…”_  
  
 _“Do what! You are an incompetent director and your father would be…”_  
  
“Wrong move Nichols.” Malcolm snorted.  
  
“ _I AM HEREBY RELIEVING YOU OF YOUR DUTIES AS DIRECTOR OF PUBLIC MANAGEMENT. GOOD DAY, LORD NICHOLSON.”_  
  
All the workers had stopped to listen at the fiery exchange within the rooms. Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows and said, “What are you lot waiting for? The sounds of making up? A fucking orgy? Fuck off, let Director Stewart handle this.”  
   
Everyone continued their daily duties, giving Malcolm the odd look. Malcolm felt the familiar thrum of power returning to his veins.  
  
He was in control. At last.  
  
The door to Kate’s door burst open, and Malcolm practically jumped onto the sofa, assuming the most innocent expression he could. Grace leapt from her chair.  
  
Alex Nicholson walked inside the room and advanced threateningly onto Malcolm, “ _You utter bastard, you…”_  
  
“Now, now Alex, please calm down.” Malcolm raised a placating hand.  
  
“Why. Why Malcolm? What did I ever do to you, hmm? For all the space I provided you, you give me public humiliation?”  
  
Malcolm looked around to see if anyone was listening. Grace was the only one in the room and she was holding up a folder as defence. Kate wasn't here yet.  
  
Malcolm put an arm around Alex, “Your brother had an amazing analogy, to help me deal with my problems. I like to remember that, in times like this.”  
  
Alex looked at him, confused, “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
“Look. You were my onion bhaji,” he pointed at Alex, and smiled a very poisonous smile. “You and your pathetic, and poisonous ineptitude. You were standing in everyone’s way, Alex. You could say you were an old, stinking onion bhaji. So I decided to force feed you this onion bhaji and then drive you to a secluded spot to dump you in - you know, give you a safe space to digest it. I’ve heard the flatulence from left over onion bhajis are _very_ explosive.”  
  
Nicholson opened his mouth to protest, “But -“   
  
“You asked me what I was assisting you with didn't you? Well,” Malcolm removed his arm and took Alex’s position behind his desk, “I was assisting you into committing a massive self autopsy. You were a disaster waiting to happen Nicholson. I just set the wheels of fate in motion. Go enjoy an early retirement. Watch some cricket with yer egg headed brother too, ya massive English, pasty fuck.” Malcolm finished his sentence with a chilling relish.  
  
Nicholson stared at Malcolm and then at Grace, who was clutching the folder so hard, she nearly ripped it in two. “What about you Grace, any parting words, my dear.”  
  
“I am sorry Mr. Nicholson. I am very sorry.”  
  
“Right. Of course you are, you opportunistic little bitc-”   
  
“HOW DARE YOU?” Malcolm pounced on Alex, “How dare you blame her? She was doing her job and she was doing it well, even after having a useless sack of meat like you holding her behind, _ya massive closeted poof…”_  
  
Alex vindictively pulled his bag from the desk and stomped out of the room, not sparing her a second glance. He turned to Tucker, “You know, in the long run…” he faltered on seeing Kate, who had appeared at the door, her eyes fiery.  
  
He dropped his voice. “… in the long run, I win.”  
  
“Why’s that? You’re going to be uploaded onto the Matrix, is that it?” Malcolm whispered mockingly. “That’s too bad - they're wasting a couple GB’s of data space that would have been worth more to the human race storing porn and cat videos.”  
  
“And don’t you _dare_ think I will leave you and your brother alone. You will find my soul haunting your very fucking existence. I will raze both of you to the ground like a fucking medieval peasant. Now get out of my sight.”  
  
Alex raised away from Malcolm, his eyes pinpricks of hate and stalked huffily out of the office, with Kate at his heels.  
  
Grace collapsed back onto the chair, clutching her chest, a small tear forming in her eyes. She felt really bad. Alex Nicholson had been a kind boss - jovial and lighthearted. He wasn’t that bad to work around… not really. It was boring and at times Grace did feel like this job wasn't going to give her much scope for ambition…. but he was a nice person…  
  
She felt a warm weight on her shoulder. It was tentative. “Hey, hey, you okay? Don’t let him get to you.”  
  
“He was a nice man.”  
  
“That’s debatable. But I know you have every right to feel and believe that and hate me for this.”  
  
Grace looked through the tears to see Malcolm’s honest face. His eyes were soft now, unlike the haughty demeanour he was sporting just thirty seconds ago. “My PA, Sam. She went through this too. I was made to resign and she was heartbroken, bless her. Would have left if she didn't actually believe that they’d need me, sooner or later.”  
  
“Yeah but no point in me believing that, is there?”  
  
“No. I am sorry. Really.”  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“For you. Not him.”  
  
Grace sniffed and held back her tears, wiping them on the back of her hand. She had helped make this happen. Malcolm had said that Alex wanted to pull UNIT down - and Malcolm was obviously the only other person suitable enough to come in and take his place. This was the reality she had chosen for herself.  
  
She looked up at Malcolm resolutely. There would be time for tears, later.  
  
“Right then. Papers. You have loads waiting for you, now that Nicholson’s gone…”  
  
“Wait a minute!” Malcolm looked at her strangely, “What are you doing?”  
  
“Well,” Grace growled, “you said you needed my help.”  
  
“So you will work for me then?”  
  
“Obviously.”  
  
Malcolm considered her for a second. Then a bright smile leapt onto his face as he looked at all the papers on her desk.   
  
“Hit me with the worst turd you’ve got in here, Grace Jones. And a nice sandwich while you’re at it. I’m feeling positively ravenous today. Oh and…” Malcolm paused, raising a finger as if to remind himself, “How about you send a little word to my friend Tom Nicholson at the BBC, and tell him the happy news?”  
  
“What happy news?”  
  
“Oh, that a certain self obsessed prick with a head larger than his testes just stabbed himself in the carotid with the money of the innocent. And that his zombie corpse is now going to make it’s way to Whitehall to eat his brother’s brains with a side of piss… I don’t know.” He smiled deviously at her, “After all, this _is_ your first kill, and mama tiger wants baby tiger to rip it’s throat out. Have fun with it. Though mind,” Malcolm said, “Don’t leave any paw prints, yeah?”  
  
“Why so you can take all the credit?” Grace teased.  
  
“Nope. So Kate can.”  
  
Malcolm stalked off back to his desk, and Grace thought that she might have seen a claw instead of a hand reach out for his stack of papers. _Yet that feeling of engaging in politics from behind the desk for the first time was intoxicating._ She watched Malcolm, who was immediately reaching out to other contacts in the press, while feverishly typing out a statement to defend the sack on his laptop.  
  
 _He wasn't even bothered with the lime light, now that he had cleared his name._  
  
Feeling very much like a tiger cub sinking her teeth into meat for the first time, she shot off a mail to the BBC.

 


	16. A Curious Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UNIT has a new Director for Media Management, and Malcolm has a plan. An arrangement of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been updating regularly XD

“Julius, this is a proper fucking disaster, and you know how this is going to end… an investigation. Now I don’t want to lose another Director of communications… Ollie is worth more under our thumb than running around before the press. God knows we can’t deal with something like that.”  
   
“Of course Prime Minister, I completely understand… leave this to me…”  
   
There was a pause. Julius could hear the sounds of the television running in the PM’s office.   
   
“Prime Minister Green?”  
   
“Can I Julius? Can I really?”  
   
“I do not - “  
   
“Open BBC. Now.” PM Green’s said, a hint of displeasure entering his voice.  
   
Julius switched on the TV with the remote on his desk. The reporter was reading the headlines.   
   
“ _In a shocking turn of events, Unified Intelligence Taskforce confirmed the sacking of Lord Alex Nicholson, from the Department of Media Management at UNIT headquarters, over his dealings with what was then know as Wharf-gate. It is alleged that Lord Nicholson unfairly acquired the property from UNIT hands and used it boost his personal finances. As of today, the building his being leased by a multitude of research and development related laboratories. Mr. Nicholson served UNIT for over 25 years. We go to Melissa Carthy, at the Tower of London.”_  
   
Julius felt his extremities go numb, as the journalist appeared on his screen. The camera was focused on her, and he noticed the imposing figure of UNIT HQ behind her. A hole bunch of reporters were milling about the entry to of the main building. Julius whispered into the phone, “I’ll get back to you. Let’s think this through rationally, yes?”  
   
“… _as your viewers might aware of about a tip off, earlier this morning, that informed us about the events at UNIT HQ, and we reached out to them, subsequently. They were surprisingly rather calm and collected about the whole situation; honestly Terry considering UNIT’s track record in dealing with these situations, it’s clear that they have benefitted hugely by getting Mr. Tucker on board. We are unsure of just how big a hand he had in this.”_  
Julius’ innards brew with anger as he saw cameras showing repeats of Alex trying to wriggle himself out of the media spotlight and into his car. He was positively foaming with rage.   
   
“The idiot.” Julius groaned. In his wounded pride and anger, Alex had forgotten to call Julius so he could try and put a lid on this entire situation. They were on a precipice here - luckily 3W was well hidden, and no one could trace Wharf-Gate back to the government…  
   
Kate Stewart walked imposingly towards the waiting press members. They all turned around and thrust their microphones into her face. Before they could start their barrage of questions, Kate raised her hand, demanding silence.  
   
 _“Allow me to state the case and then you may ask questions. As you might be aware, as Director of UNIT, I was compelled to dismiss Lord Alex Nicholson, Director of Management and Communications this morning, following an investigation into his alleged negligence in the dealing of the Battle of Canary Wharf and the Atmos Industries Incident. We have reason to believe that Lord Nicholson had acquired the Canary Wharf property from UNIT to further his own gains, violating his commitment to the organisation and it’s sanctity.”_  
   
 _“I will take questions now.”_  
   
Julius held his breath as the BBC reporter pounced on Kate Stewart, “Director Stewart, what led you to believe in Mr. Nicholson’s guilt?”  
   
“Lord Nicholson to you,” Julius grumbled.   
   
 _“Ah, most of our sources into this investigation cannot be revealed I am afraid, considering the explosive nature of the repercussions of such a report, however I am to believe that the connection between Lord Nicholson and the company came to us from a source in the government,_ ” Kate added thoughtfully, feigning complete innocence.  
   
Julius’ blood ran cold. This had Malcolm’s finger prints all over it. Didn't he come to 10 Downing that day? Surely his lap dogs Jamie and Sam would have helped him find something on Alex….  
   
 _“What company is this, Kate?”_  
   
 _“While I am not at a liberty to divulge a name, we have a good understanding of what they do. They are a research and development organisation that works on data storage - specifically storage of human minds. We have come to understand that many people with the financial resources and, let’s say,_ interest _in maintaining themselves and their families above the general public, have donated generously to this company. And,”_ Kate looked crestfallen _,’As it is with these things, we have heard rumours that quite a few upper tier ministers might be involved as well. This issue does not only involve Lord Nicholson. As an organisation specialising in scientific research as well, we are looking into their activities for possible dangers to society and what sort of complacency on the side of the government we are dealing with. ”_  
   
There were gasps and cameras clicking. There was only one person in the media who Malcolm had met that was privy to this information. Julius rammed a number onto his phone and practically yelled when the call connected, “OLLIE FUCKING REEDER, WHAT DID YOU TELL MALCOLM?”  
   
“NOT A FUCKING THING!” Ollie cried  
 _“Why would you do such a thing, Director Stewart. Surely you don’t wish to enter politics?”_  
 _“No I do not. This is what UNIT was created to, and may I inform you, that we have a history of dealing with governments that have stuck their nose where it shouldn't be. The Harold Saxon incident of 2007 is a great example of that.” Kate bristled._  
   
 _“Who is going to replace Lord Nicholson then?”_  
   
Kate gave a slight smile, “ _As there weren’t many candidates around at the time, we are pleased to inform that we offered Mr Tucker the position, and he is currently in the process of accepting it.”_  
   
 _“Is there anyone from the government you can specifically say did this, Director Stewart?”_  
   
 _“Is Lord Julius Nicholson involved?”_  
   
 _“Is Oliver Reeder involved?”_  
   
 _“Did Mr Tucker find out this information?”_  
   
 _“Mr. Tucker did visit Downing Street - I recall him telling me that he only visited his old office and saw the new Director, and met an old friend. Mr Tucker has done nothing more and is currently helping us rebuild the Department of Media Management. He did not have any information that we didn't know. He only helped us draw a link between some irregular governmental expenditures on land and the actions of Lord Nicholson.”_ Kate looked at her watch, and then beckoned security. “ _We will keep you updated on the investigation as it happens.”_  
   
 _“I must also make it abundantly clear that we do not wish to make enemies at 10 Downing, and so, while the investigation will do it’s best to be impartial and fair, we will not take any judicial action against Mr. Nicholson for violating the organisation. However,”_ she glared right into the camera, “ _I will make this report public, as is our custom, and let the people decide what to do with it.”_  
   
Julius felt his heart was about to fail. He grabbed his coat and coffee and walked to Ollie’s office. Sam was peacefully typing away at her computer, oblivious to everything.  
   
Julius thumped his coffee down on her desk, and tried to put an amicable expression on his face - the end result was a spasm that wracked his mouth. “Sam.”  
   
Sam looked up and nearly jumped back in fright. “J-Julius! What happened to you?”  
“When Malcolm came by the other day,” he continued ignoring her fearful expression, “Did he ask you to fetch something for him? A file perhaps, from the Cabinet of shadows?”  
   
“No. I only accessed that Cabinet to help Ollie with something on Tom Newman. You can ask him.”  
   
“Apparently it wasn't good enough.”  
   
“Why?” Sam asked, confused.  
   
Ollie walked out of his office, talking agitatedly on the phone, “… So what would you have me do next? I told you I had nothing to do with it? _No_ in this case Malcolm is still the fox and I am the rabbit he is going to fuck… he’s a rabbit fucker… no I did not mean to refer back to the rape attempt …” Ollie covered his eyes tiredly, “All I am saying is is that this is nothing more than wild conspiracy. WELL AT LEAST I DIDN’T FUCKING BANG A COCONUT!”  
   
Ollie slammed the End call button. Suddenly Julius’ and Ollie’s phones pinged. Three words. They knew who had sent it, before even looking at the sender id.  
   
Sam looked fearfully from one man to the next, as they stared daggers at each other.   
   
“Sam.” Ollie murmured. “Get me a coffee would you?” Sam grabbed her phone and hurried down the hall, frantically scrolling through the BBC app.   
   
She saw the headlines and murmured, smiling, “Took you long enough.”  
 

***

   
“Wonderful little pickle we’ve gotten ourselves into, Oliver Reeder. And what are you doing, exactly, to help us out of it?”  
   
“Working my fuckin’ arse off while you go skinny dipping in the fucking mud pools of Africa, that’s what!” Ollie exploded. “Seriously, is Alex really your fucking brother? Because any shit coming to us from the Illuminati Convention should have gone through you!”  
   
Julius clenched his fists and plonked himself before Ollie, rubbing his face.  
   
Suddenly Ollie’s phone rang. They both jumped.   
   
“IS that the PM?” Julius asked, worried. Ollie braced himself from the caller ID.  
   
“It’s a blocked number.”  
   
Ollie picked it and put it on speaker.  
   
“Hello?”  
   
“Mr Reeder?” A crisp voice issued from the other end of the phone. “Greetings. This is Dr. Chang. From 3W?”  
   
Ollie and Julius glanced at each other, confused. “Yes?”  
   
“I have a message from my superiors. They looked at the coverage of the, ah, debacle on the investigation against 3W, and hope that you will do everything in your power to curb UNIT? We have successfully managed to evade UNIT all these years, and we would hate to lose now. You might find us to be rather difficult enemies to cross in court. Or indeed in reality. You do not wish to be uncared for after your death… or indeed cremated do you?”  
   
Ollie tried smoothing the panic in his voice, “Of course, Prime Minister Green is personally taking it on himself to deal with UNIT. We plan on meeting with Director Stewart soon…”  
   
“Good.” Dr. Chang cordially said. “Just ensuring we make our positions clear.”  
   
Before Julius or Ollie could respond, the phone line went dead.  
   
They stared at each other with intense fear ripping through their insides.  
   
 _What the hell had they gotten themselves into?_  
 

_***_

 

Malcolm was silently mouthing the entire statement, surveying the TV screen. His glasses were fixed on his nose and he screwed his eyes, reading the headlines. As the feature got over, he smiled and sent off a text to Andy and Mandy.  
   
“ _Your move, cunt.”_  
   
“Gra-ace.” he called, turning around and removing his glasses. He was feeling relaxed and particularly chatty at the moment.  
   
“Hmm?”  
   
“You free?”  
   
“Yeah what’s up?”  
   
He gestured at the TV. “Nice kill.”   
   
Grace blushed. “You did most of the work anyway.”  
   
“Hey, listen,” Malcolm leant forward in his chair, pointing at her, “I wouldn’t have known where to pull out half of this shit. Besides, what good is it having a daddy, if he ain’t gonna show you the ropes,” he mocked in an American accent.  
   
Grace laughed and sat down. “Mind you, Kate pretty much stuck to the script. Unlike yourself.”  
“I’ve spent a lot of time dealing with and studying these specimens of trash. Kate is simple - a woman of action. She’s self sufficient and effective as a leader, but history is my witness when I say that she needs to be given words when it comes to the silver tongued..or should I say, quilled, press.”  
   
Grace nodded in agreement.   
   
A few moments later Kate appeared in his office.  
   
“Well?  
   
“I would've lost the scarf.” Malcolm teased.  
   
“It was cold out there!” Kate angrily huffed.  
   
“You were great. I can’t thank you enough for following the script.” Malcolm genuinely smiled. It was so _fucking_ relaxing having people who actually meant a damn thing in this place listen to him. The rest he could managed.  
   
“Well you put us out there Malcolm! We are a military organisation, not a politically bandying…”  
   
“Yes I know. Got that the last one hundred times you told me.” Malcolm sighed, clearing his table with the proof that he hustled up a rudimentary interview for Kate in the span of the last three hours, selling the story of an investigation that never was. “But then again, what is a military without politics, than just a boring orgy without the masks. Takes the intrigue right out of it…”  
   
“Yes, yes, I get that politics spins your world around - oh god,” Kate face palmed in annoyance as Grace heaved with laughter; Malcolm guffawed and finger gunned her.   
   
“See! This is fun! You were enjoying it too, if I may be so bold.”  
   
“Maybe a little. We settled a score with 10, God knows I’ve been itching to do that.” She handed Malcolm a thick envelope and a small case. Malcolm raised an eyebrow, confused.  
   
Kate shrugged her shoulders, “Well, this is your guarantee that this won’t be the last time you can dangle me out to the press to give them a thorough beat down. Mind you - if you abuse that privilege,” she gave him an icy stare. Malcolm ripped open the envelope and read his employment letter.  
   
“You got it boss.”  
   
“I would go over that carefully if I were you. Grace, take him through his - ah - welcome package.”  
   
Grace smiled and began to open the seals on the case, the seal of UNIT emblazoned on it.  
   
Kate looked at Malcolm who was absorbed in the letter. “Welcome to UNIT, Mr Tucker.”  
   
Malcolm smiled at her, and continued to peruse through the letter, as Grace cleared her throat to catch his attention.  
   
“Hold on, I’m on a particularly interesting point about what my insurance covers - erm - so they’ve got accidental space time displacement, possession, trapped in alien submarines, ships, other travel modules…” he looked up at Grace an exasperated look on his face, “Seriously, which movie am I living in? Fucking “ _Independence Day, the rise of the wanker sic fi nerds”_? Jesus, they have an entire bit about death. Who covers the medical cost of this?”  
   
“We do.” Grace replied patiently. “There are many people here who have seen things that made them question everything about their existence - we found these poor people who were lost to the space time rift - one man saw into the heart of a Dark star.” Grace shuddered. “Made him insane. We took over from Torchwood after Torchwood 3 was disbanded and provided for the physical and mental rehabilitation of people who ordinary hospitals can’t take care of.”  
   
Malcolm looked at Grace as if she were speaking a whole new language. With an annoyed huff and a sigh, he realised this was the sort of madness he would be dealing with - or at least would have to deal with. He feared for his sanity, and reminded himself to go borrow some books to cover up on his science background. Malcolm thanked his younger self for being lonely and motivated enough to exhaust all the scientific literature at his local library.   
   
“I remember” Malcolm was swivelling in his chair, refusing to make eye contact. “You said, that day when I found out about Andy… your sister-in-law and her family had been through PTSD. Did UNIT help?”  
   
“Yeah.”  
   
“How? Were they in a war zone?”  
   
“Apparently. It was something to do with the Harold Saxon incident. A year that never was, Martha told me. Her entire family was kept as prisoners - tortured, even. After they came back, UNIT gave Martha a job to keep a stable income and provided for all their medical expenses. The Doctor recommended her himself, apparently.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“She used to travel with the him.” Grace popped open the case and began to remove his personnel equipment.  
   
Malcolm nearly spat the tea he was drinking, “ _What?_ That looney bastard? People get PTSD travelling with him?”  
   
“It had it’s moments of danger. It wasn't a cake walk for her. But…” Grace looked outside the window, remembering what Martha had said, “She said it was a whole new different way of living. Standing up for what’s right - never giving in, never giving up. She’d been beaten down in so many ways, and still she could stand up and fight against those who oppressed her. And win! She really changed as a person, after meeting the Doctor.”  
   
“What about you then? Do you think you changed” Grace eyed Malcolm tentatively.  
   
“How the fuck would I have changed? I didn't go prancing off with him into the fucking rainbow sunset, nor that I ever would. Jesus, he nearly got me killed once. And trust me, if this Doctor is the saintly type of bastard everyone thinks he is, he would definitely not let me around him. I’m literally the fucking devil. ” Malcolm said incredulously.  
   
Grace shrugged her shoulders. “Did he ask you to travel with him?”  
   
Malcolm paused. “Yeah. Yeah now that I think of it, he did.”  
   
Grace smiled, “Then you are not the literal fucking devil. He is a pretty-“  
   
“Good judge of character. Like I said,” he pointed at his face, “fucked then.” He picked his Id card from the table and clipped it onto his belt. He felt complete.  
   
Grace grinned and turned the case around to face him. “Right so you have your uniform, for field work days ; a bullet proof vest that you should keep close to yourself, just in case; a gun that you have to keep close to your person _all the time._ Many aliens are impervious to it, but many aren’t. It might be your best shot at getting out of a sticky situation.”  
   
Malcolm groaned slightly, “Seriously you all have weapons? You too? How many guns do you guys have? It’s fucking disturbing…”  
Grace handed him his standard issue gun, surprised, “You seemed like the kind of person who operates the underworld. No offence.”  
   
Malcolm tutted, “Don’t be disgusting - I’m a politician. I _was_ a politician. I’d be the fucking kingpin in the underworld. I don’t get my hands dirty - I make others dig through the puss laden infestation that this their careers, and provide a little, ah, _incentive_.”  
   
“Seriously. You're the peaceful type? Did you do diplomacy for the government then?”  
   
“Aye, I’m all for not bringing out the boom boom sticks, unlike our shitty, infantile cousins across the pond, OD-ing on fucking IV’s full of fucking deep fried oil, but don’t expect me to go all doe eyes over Diplomacy either. Diplomacy is boring as fuck - it’s all about getting lap dances from ministers and foreign dignitaries to stuff votes in their bra. We fucking loose our collective shit coming up with a resolution, only to have it canned because one fucking preamble, or one fucking sub-sub-sub clause is contentious. So can you imagine how rabid it makes us, that despite all that arse-banging, we enter a war? Mind you,” Malcolm shuffled through the folder, “War is nothing but a political tool of a thriving weapons industry and low political IQ to come up with a solution more than one syllable long. Smartphones and autocorrect have made people lazy - they all want solutions to complicated problems, and fucking mewl angrily when they can’t fit in a 140 word tweet. So there you have it - deploy troops here, deploy troops there, deploy troops every-fucking-where. My sister-in-law is barely home for her son. It’s sad really. She barely made it out alive for his 4th birthday.” Malcolm shifted his glasses and placed the gun on the table disdainfully.  
   
Grace blinked twice. She then gave a soft smile, “He hates them too you know. Apparently.”  
   
Malcolm looked up at her, “What?”  
“The Doctor. Hates guns. And people with guns. He hates it when someone with an automatic stands near him.”  
   
“But he was chummies with the Brigadier.”  
“Yeah. Funny thing that.”  
Malcolm sighed, and the two of them worked in silence.   
   
 _He hates guns. And people with guns._  
   
 _And yet his best mate was a soldier._  
   
 _Who the fuck is this guy?_ his mind asked  
   
 _Danger._ A small silky voice replied. _Pure, unadulterated, danger. A house on fire, you might say._  
   
Malcolm nearly jumped in his chair. The voice was in his head, but he didn't think it belonged to him. Unless his brain was fucking around with him - it seemed to do that a lot after Frank.  
   
When Grace was bent over her work, Malcolm silently picked up the gun with the holster, put the safety latch on, and slipped it into his bag. Just in case.

  
***

 

Everyone was clearing out for the day. Grace was just packing up her things, when she noticed Malcolm lounging about on the chair, his fingers pressed against his lips.  
   
“Malcolm? We’re leaving.”  
   
“Hmm? No, go on. I’m staying on for a bit. Gotta see the Twins.”  
   
Grace raised an eyebrow at him, and raising her hand in farewell, walked out of the office. Malcolm’s mind was far away into the future. Churning out possibilities.   
   
 _Missy would have seen that his work was done. A proper, televised kill. She would know it was him: she had seen into his head. This was an opportunity of a lifetime… if she could find a link between Missy and Downing (because there fucking_ has _to be) he could nail Ollie in the head so fucking hard, he would become the patron saint for all the twats who dared cross him again._  
   
Malcolm made a decision He went straight to the science department.   
   
The Osgood twins were sitting and pouring over a huge, complicate book, slowly scanning a huge metallic piece that occupied the centre table of the room. Golden light pulsated dimly on it’s surface.  
   
Malcolm shuddered when he saw them - twins usually had something that differentiated them - no matter how similar they looked. Whether it was their hair styles, or their demeanour.   
   
“It’s like facing a fucking pound store parody of the fucking Shining. But with more psychopaths and less humans.”  
   
 _Apparently one is a Zygon._ Grace had whispered conspiratorially into his ear, one morning.  _And you don’t want to anger a Zygon. Nasty things. They’ve got suckers._  
   
Malcolm had pretty much reverted to adopting the mannerisms of a Victorian Gentleman before those two.  
   
“Hallo. Osgoods. Whatcha doing.”  
   
The twins turned to acknowledge his presence. Malcolm gulped the inevitable ‘ _fuck’_ that was about to tumble from his lips.  
   
“Hey Malcolm! Just scanning this beauty for some nanogenes.” Scarfy remarked.  
   
“… sounds fascinating.” Malcolm remarked.  
   
“They’re programmable particles that can be used to heal injuries. Like an airborne medical kit.” Scarfy explained helpfully. Malcom ‘oh’d her and joined them at the table.  
   
 _Fucking fuck me._ The image of a red alien under one of their bodies, covered in suckers, whispering weirdly was enough to make Malcolm want to stab them in the eye with a pen.  
He plastered a smile on his face instead.  
   
“I was wondering…” Malcolm slid onto the bench with them, ‘If you have one of those cool alien thingies… ” he waved his hadn't about.  
   
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.” Scarfy said, confused.  
   
“Yeah let me finish for fu-, I mean,” he breathed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose, slightly stressed, “Do you have like surveillance equipment… it’s not for anyone! It’s for me.” Malcolm said raising his hand as Bowtie had just started to protest. “I’ve been… uh… having nightmares. And so I start sleepwalking. Michael will keep a track on me.”  
   
Scarfy and Bowtie looked at each other, “Just talk to Kate and go to a doctor,” Bowtie said gently, “That’ll offer a more long term solution.”  
   
“Look, I’m working my balls off here and for me, that’s as good as any medicine or vacation can get. So will you please just give me that damn thing.” Malcolm growled.  
   
“Malcolm…” Scarfy warned. “This is against protocol.”  
   
Malcolm lost his patience.  
   
“Listen girl. I am the fucking father of protocol. Protocol’s don’t apply to me, I fucking apply them to everybody else like fucking lube so I can ram my fist up their arse, _that’s_ how well I know them. I also know that under your employment benefits, section 2, sub section c, “ _an employee can avail benefits of alien technology as long as it isn't used for monetary gain, maiming, torture, murder or…”_  
   
Scary looked taken aback, and Bowtie was stunned. “You… you actually…”  
   
“Read through the whole fucking thing, yeah. You are supposed to as well. Jesus fucking Christ, teenagers I swear” Malcolm was silently crossing his fingers. He was bullshitting like a pro, and they were lapping it up.  
   
“We’ll have to ask Kate though…”  
   
“Don’t tell Kate.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
“I’ll tell her myself. And in my own time.” He drew closer, his teeth clenched. “Because if Kate starts hovering around me like some annoying fucking reminders app, I will personally make sure that _you two_ have to deal with all the reporters on your next scene, got it?”  
   
Bowtie wheezed and Scarfy turned pale.  
   
Going back home, on the tube, he clutched the small paper bag containing a paper thin tracker device. He would attach that to Missy’s phone - he prayed she wouldn't realise.  
He silently mused at how far he had managed to come in a span of few weeks. His nightmares were reducing, although they retained the same horrifying detail as before, and  the promise of a steady (and not insignificant) income with all it’s perks made him heady with happiness.  
   
He walked through the front door of his house, and placing his keys in the bowl, when a familiar purr greeted him.  
   
“Back again then?” He glared at his feet as Pudding rubbed affectionately against his feet.  
   
Pudding was a tabby that had been christened so by David, aged 4. Malcolm had prepared a nice warm pudding for David and David’s mum to enjoy. However, as luck would have it, he left the window open for whatever shit menagerie decided to make the Tucker household theirs. And that’s when Pudding, in the true spirit of her curious feline nature, had crawled upto the window sill, and was proudly strutting about when Malcolm’s sudden scream shocked the cat into loosing it’s footing and body slamming the cooling pudding.  
   
Michael practically peed himself laughing that day, watching Malcolm’s distraught expression as he carefully extricated the hissing feline, only to be scratched in the hands.  
And as it is with cats, Pudding seemed to shower all her affections on her unwilling saviour.  
   
“I am going to fucking murder that boy. DAVID?” he called out to Michael and David. No answer.  
   
 _Football practice, maybe?_ He sighed and shrugged of his coat. _It was eight o clock, though_ , he thought worriedly. He was about to reach for his phone, when a sudden voice greeted him.  
   
“Oh don’t bother.”  
   
Malcolm’s eyes practically shot out of his face when he regarded the woman who walked out of the shadows, descending the stairs with a smug expression on her face.  
It was Missy.  
   
“What did you do to them? Where are they?”  
   
“I killed them.”  
   
Malcolm felt the bottom of his stomach falling away… his head was spinning and his hand went for the gun in his bag…  
   
Missy laughed.   
   
“Look at your silly little face _oh my goood.”_ She cooed, thwacking his bag away with her umbrella. ‘I was joking. They’re out shopping.”  
   
“What… why?” Malcolm was getting more confused by the second, his unformed scream for rage dying in his chest.  
   
‘Ooh, just a little mental manipulation, a little whisper here and there and “ _Daddy can we get ice cream””_ Missy cooed in a mocking, child like tone. “It’s pathetic, how _do_ you put up with it.”  
   
“I don’t.”  
   
Missy made an ‘O’ expression with her face, raising her head up and down, her smile becoming more pronounced. ‘Right. But if I may be so bold,” she dragged his hand from his side and held it. ‘I spy, with my little eye, _a wee wedding ring_ …”  
   
“It’s to shut people up. Useless questions I haven't got time for.” Malcolm pulled his hand back, like she’d burned him. “Get the fuck out of my house.”  
   
“Or you’ll call the cops? I have handcuffs if that’s what you’re after,” she winked, exaggerating her every move, “If you get what I… OOH, a cat!”  
   
Missy whirled Pudding up in the air, which meowed angrily, shaking itself to escape.   
   
“Let it go. She scratches.”  
   
Missy dropped Pudding and watched it saunter away. “You know I’ve been looking for a way to describe this body. Didn't have a chance to check it out, y’know, busy trying to conquer a world and all.” She placed her hands on her hips, as if measuring them. “I think I know now. A cat. I scratch and bite, and I love cuddles.”  
   
Malcolm really didn't have time for people trying to introspect on their inner spirit animals- he wanted a drink and a nice warm bath…  
  
He grabbed Missy by the arm, and opening his door, he threw her out. “Well I am glad that I could help you in your quest to find your inner, alien zen if you even have that sort of thing. Bye bye and don't ever come back.”  
   
Missy was about to protest when he slammed the door on her face, and paused at the door, his breath heavy, his heart hammering.  
   
“ _What on Earth did I do that for?”_ Malcolm’s frontal lobe screamed  
   
His unerring subconscious whispered, _“Patience.”_  
   
Half an hour after he had gotten a drink and fed Pudding, he sunk himself in his bath groaning as the water helped release the tension in his muscles. He lay back, staring at the bathroom wall, smiling inwardly at the chaos his actions had brought to Whitehall. He was thinking of calling Sam and Jamie, just get a sense of what screaming fits his design had led to - no doubt the corridors of 10 would have the same ambiance of the London Dungeon in the eighteen hundreds. He began to get up from the tub…  
   
“I don't understand, you asked me to find you.”  
   
Malcolm yelped and slipped. He would have cracked his skull if it had not been for the strong hands that shielded his fall. His movement sent waves of water that splashed all around the tub.  
   
His subconscious giggled, “ _Told you so.”_  
   
“WOMAN DO YOU NOT HAVE A CONCEPT OF PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE?”  
   
Missy grumbled as she regarded her wet corset. “You’re very welcome love.”  
   
Malcolm reached unsuccessfully for the towel. “Pass the towel.”  
   
Missy made a horrified face, “Now, now, that’s no way to talk to a lady, is it?”  
   
Through gritted teeth he snarled, “Please, would you be so kind as to pass me that towel?”  
   
She ignored him. “This is all wet. Whatever am I supposed to do?”  
   
“ _I don’t know.”_  
   
“Lucky you then.”  
   
She slipped off her blouse, revealing a rather soaked, white shirt underneath. Malcolm throat contracted, and a warm sensation erupted at the back of his neck.   
   
Missy was staring at her now transparent shirt. “God, you don’t even occupy that much volume… Oh well,” she lounged at one end of the tub. “Doesn’t matter I have spares. Go on then,” she gestured to his clothes on the rack. “Go robe yourself.”  
   
Malcolm glared at her, his head just above the water. He thanked his shitty luck for at least making him indulge in a little bubble bath, so he could appropriately cover his nether regions.  
   
“Come on now. My race was practically time travelling when you little naked apes were running about on the Savannah. There’s nothing here that will shock me… or will it,” Missy smiled evilly, placing her chin on her folded hands on the side of the tub.   
   
Malcolm was loosing patience, “I would rather not have a psychotic woman in fucking fancy dress look at my balls.”  
   
“You let the Doctor look at them. How’s that fair then?” She drew back, feigning exasperation.  
   
Malcolm raised an eyebrow, “You know the Doctor?”  
   
Missy touched her nose, “We aliens gotta stick together. He’s my boyfriend.”  
   
“Then what the fuck are you… wait what?” Malcolm was grinning now. “And you let him hang around with other women? Must be nice in martian land.”  
   
“Oh Clara? No, she’s a little poodle, I don’t worry about her. The Doctor and I - we exist on a whole different level.”  
   
Malcolm’s brain was whizzing. This woman knew everything about the Doctor - right down to who he was travelling with… and she could do the fucking Jedi mind thing as well… could it be…  
   
“Are you and the Doctor… like….”  
   
“Like what?” Missy smiled indulgently.  
   
“The same… _species?”_  
   
Missy was laughing now. “Oh you’re _gooood._ Really good, my god, is this how it’s like travelling with you lot?”  
   
Missy was beaming at Malcolm. His hair was practically flat on his face, blocking his eyes like curly grey seaweed. She had selected Clara for the Doctor, handpicked her from the drivel of humans. Just a chance meeting, a chance phone call.   
   
And the Doctor had picked out a puppy for her to play with. She could kiss him for it.   
   
She _would_ kiss him for it. She made a mental note of that.  
   
Missy pulled the watery fringe off Malcolm’s face, who whacked her hands away, “What are you…”  
   
She really couldn't resist any longer.   
   
Malcolm found himself unable to breath again. Partly because of the water that he found himself submerged in, and partly because of the fucking alien who was intent on sucking the air out of his lungs.   
   
He tried to push her off, he really did, but somewhere in his mind, a deep dark recess where he had kept all his desires and needs and loneliness locked away came bursting out, like a particularly nasty pustule being burst. It flowed through him, knocking away all sense and judgement, as he acquiesced to his fate.  
   
Besides, wasn't it his brilliant idea to have a James Bond style surveillance bug on the woman?  
   
Suddenly Malcolm was grabbing her waist and pulling them out of the water, as he gently parted his lips, exploring her. Missy uttered a guttural sound and savaged his mouth with her tongue, her sopping clothes pressed against Malcolm; and as she raked his scalp,Malcolm felt an urge to take her then and there when suddenly…  
   
“Malc you alright in there?” Michael’s voice called out, worrying.   
   
Malcolm yelped for a second time that evening, as Missy drew, a toothy grin plastered on her sopping face. Malcolm looked at her in shock.  
   
To Missy, he looked like a little boy denied candy at Halloween.  
   
Good. Made it so much more fun to watch them die. But there would be time for that later.   
   
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Malcolm called in a high pitched voice, his eyes never leaving Missy. She leant forward and slowly placed a kiss on his earlobe, whispering, “Another time then.”  
   
And with a flash of blue light, she was gone.   
   
That night, Malcolm carefully unpacked the tracking device and placed it in his drawer. Just in case Missy decided to make an appearance again. He changed into shorts and a shirt, and collapsed on his bed. He wasn't exhausted, so he continued to stare at the ceiling. He didn't want to sleep. That’s when he was most vulnerable to his own brain.  
   
As Malcolm lay on his bed, alone, clutching a pillow for comfort, he didn't notice Missy observing him through her iPad, munching on crisps, a sad smile playing on her lips.  
   
 _The Doctor would come running to me._  
   
 _Not, not the Doctor, he's a bitch._  
   
 _Theta. Begging me to run with him on the slopes of Mount Perdition when the suns were all but gone from the twinkling star filled sky. Promises of a life of adventure and restlessness. Two Prydonians, standing on the corpses of stars._  
   
 _Look at us now. Spying each other through stained glasses and iPads._  
   
Missy looked at the exact likeness of the Doctor, twisting and turning agitatedly in his sleep, groaning and sweating. She chortled, reminiscing. She could tell that emotion from miles away. A bad dream. Feeling the darkness of slumber encase you, like a flood not a blanket. Threatening to drown and devour.   
   
 _All those days at the Academy when that idiot sneaked off into the barn because he’d had it with his cousins calling him ‘wormhole’ and ‘snail.’ He would thrash around his little bed too. Moaning, shouting, breaking walls._  
   
 _She’d sense his nightmares. Confront him the next day at the Academy, and offer him a place her father's home. He would decline - a Highborn Time Lord? Leave his House? For shame. The Kithriarch would have his skin. So she would let him sing in his ridiculously bad voice because it helped him calm down._  
   
She tried reaching out to the image on the screen through her mind, but all she saw was darkness. She recoiled. Why was she getting weepy over an idiot Scot again?  
   
 _An enemy within a friend. A friend inside an enemy._  
   
Missy sighed and found herself in Malcolm’s bedroom. She shook Malcolm violently.  
   
“Get up, you’re positively wetting yourself.”  
   
Malcolm bolted wide awake and simply stared at Missy. _His eyes were the size of planets_ , Missy noted. _Round, round planets._  
   
“How light a sleeper are ya?” she patted his shoulder playfully.  
   
“Lighter than your fucking uterus, if the events of last week are my guide to your libido. You’re like a fucking sine graph.”  
   
“Unpredictable…. that’s me. Told you, I was like a cat,” She purred.   
   
Malcolm shut his eyes and slowly murmuring to himself, “You’re not going mad, you’re still dreaming, the weird female is not…”  
   
Missy huffed, “You were having a nightmare. You telepathic link was positively screeching. I couldn't sleep.”  
   
“Do you even fucking sleep ya mad… never mind.”  
   
Malcolm rolled over, his hand straying to his bed lamp, leaving a gigantic space for her. She considered the space for a second. Time Lords didn't need sleep, but the pup was learning fast. And accepting reality even faster. _Practical, literally no shits to give, discrete._  
   
Earth was presenting more opportunities than it ever had - and she had practically ruled the planet, for the love of Rassilon.  
   
She decided to reward Malcolm for his non-ape-ness and patience.  
   
***  
Malcolm had never had a weirder fuck. In fairness, Malcolm hadn't had a decent fuck in a long time, hence accentuating the weirdness of the situation even further. It was like a weird cross between a pity fuck and that shit out of District 9 - just a tad bit more _human._  
   
Malcolm slowly extricated himself from Missy’s grasp, as she snored lightly into the pillow, and gently removed the tracing device from its hiding place. He reached across her, careful not to wake her. His fingers enclosed around her phone, and he gently moved away. Missy shifted and snorted. Malcolm froze. Missy mumbled something incoherently, and grabbed onto his waist.  
   
 _“If there is a God in heaven,”_ Malcolm hissed, in a half sitting position. His legs were slightly raised to give him balance, which was proving to be a more painful idea by the second. Malcolm quickly attached her attached the transparent device onto it. It perfectly camouflaged in the metal, eliciting a grin from Malcolm. As his legs burned in the agony of staying up for so long, he hastily tossed the phone to the nightstand and rolled under the covers to join Missy.  
   
Having an alien fuckbuddy with really advanced tech had it’s advantages and disadvantages, Malcolm would soon find. While it made the morning afters so much more manageable, but whether it was the mind blowing sex or joking threats of world domination, Malcolm decided that he had definitely lost his capability to tell reality and fiction apart.  
   
Or, in fact, to tell whether there was a large smiley faced target painted at the back of his skull.  
 


End file.
